Gravity
by luckei1
Summary: It's about arranging stacks of books, wall colours, and jumping off a cliff. Draco/Hermione
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **All characters belong to JK Rowling and the brilliant world she created. No money is being made from my imaginings.

**Gravity**

**Prologue**

The final battle of The Great Wizarding War took place on the grounds of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry over the course of a few days. Never before had so great a quantity of magic been unleashed over so small an area. On the final day, when all restraints were removed and the battle ranged over a scant few acres, the fighting came to a head.

At the center of the battlefield were Harry Potter and the self-proclaimed Lord Voldemort, unleashing spell after spell, neither successfully gaining an advantage over the other. Then Voldemort channeled all his power into a Rending Curse, meant to split a human body in half as though merely ripping up a piece of parchment. Harry deflected the Curse into the ground.

The effect was immediate. From the point of contact, the ground itself began to split. The rift traveled from between the two men through the Forbidden Forest and then continued on to the sea. On one side, the ground rose up towards the sky; on the other, it fell toward the sea.

The spell alone should not have been enough to upend the earth, but directed into the ground it drew upon all the residual magic in the earth from every spell that had been cast upon that battlefield. The Curse was so powerful that the coastline was altered as well, cleaving large sheets of rock from the upwardly expanding land and dropping them into the water below. The result was a sheer cliff, rising high above the ocean waves on the northern side of the rift. The new landscape stretched four miles in both directions.

The creation of the rift happened too quickly to allow escape from the changing landform. Many died, mostly servants of the Dark Lord. He had based his forces in the Forbidden Forest, among whose denizens they had more allies than friends, and the sudden upheaval had felled the great trees with a speed that had crushed everything that lay beneath them. Only those who were actively involved in the fighting on the school grounds itself at that moment survived the initial destructive power of the Curse.

Draco was there when the rift began, fighting two Death Eaters. Like most of those present, he was thrown violently to the ground. He watched, awestruck, as the crack spread from where Harry and the Dark Lord stood to the Forest, only managing to tear himself away from the sight of the cataclysm unfolding before him long enough to stun the Death Eaters. He could feel the earth moving, rumbling beneath him. He stared as the ground began tumbling and rolling as though it were the surface of the ocean and not solid rock.

When the ground stopped moving, the battle between the two primary antagonists resumed, only to be quickly won by Harry. Voldemort had been so weakened by the damage he had unwittingly inflicted that he was unable to stand after falling to the earth.

Draco stood cautiously, scarcely able to believe that after years of fighting, planning, struggling, with each side trying to gain an inch on the other, after days of a near-constantly raging battle, it was finally over.

Harry had fallen to his knees and Draco thought perhaps he, too, was having a hard time accepting his own victory.

A few feet from where Draco stood, someone cried out. He looked in the direction of the sound and saw a Death Eater stumbling toward the Dark Lord's unmoving body, screaming as she ran. Draco Stunned her, but the news spread quickly and the Death Eaters either surrendered or Disapparated and whatever fighting had resumed ceased. Without the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters, the other creatures and magical peoples who had sworn to fight for them gave up.

Draco watched as those fighting against the Dark side rushed toward Harry, then he went looking for his father. When he found him, unconscious and injured but alive, a wave of relief and something else indescribable coursed through him. Draco disarmed and bound him for the Ministry to find.

He headed back to where a group of Aurors were talking and pointing toward the Forbidden Forest. When he was close enough, he heard them discussing flying over the rift to survey the damage and immediately volunteered to go with them.

Three Aurors went to the lower side of the coastal cliff, but he flew to the very highest point and dismounted. The air around him cracked and popped with the unbound remnants and sporadic flashes of raw magic. It would settle soon and return to the earth in its own way, to be absorbed and spread throughout all living things.

Draco stood as close to the edge as he dared and looked down. Waves were engaged in their endless battle with the land, beating relentlessly against the rock face far below. Jutting out of the water were the rocks that had been cleaved from the cliff wall. As he stared at the water, the height dizzied him and his vision blurred. He stumbled and the pack of supplies he had thrown over his shoulder fell. Before he could grab it, it went over the edge.

He considered Summoning it, but something held him back. Enthralled, he instead watched as the pack, as though in slow motion, tumbled through the air and finally fell into the water amidst the jagged rocks. The wind died and all he could hear was the gentle murmur of the distant pounding of the waves.

**ooo**

**Note: **Really long note at the end of chapter one


	2. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **All characters belong to JK Rowling and the brilliant world she created. No money is being made from my imaginings. 

**Chapter One**

As soon as possible, Draco purchased the land around the cliff, covering nearly two hundred acres. It had taken three months for the Ministry officials to survey and clear the land, and extend the anti-Muggle protection of the Forbidden Forest to the newly reshaped stretch of coastline.

He called the cliff the Black Heights after his mother and himself. As he waited to procure the land, he had a small house built on the grounds of Malfoy Manor. Once the transaction was complete, he hired a magical contractor to relocate the house to a spot near the edge of the cliff that gave him an unobstructed view of the water. He then Obliviated the workers, as per their agreement, to prevent them from knowing where he lived. The house itself was nothing compared to what he had grown up in—a vast, cold and dark mansion—but then, he wanted nothing to do with the kind of life he had known as a child.

It was a small, empty house with bare white walls.

It had a kitchen, a sitting room with a fireplace, two bedrooms and one bathroom, plus a small laundry area. It was painted grey with a black roof and black shutters and a green front door. All the inside walls were stark white, a blank canvas, much the way he himself felt at the end of the war. He almost felt as though he could start his life afresh. Almost.

The bedroom was sparsely furnished, which suited him, because he had learned that one didn't need much in life, contrary to everything his father had ever told him.

He had a place to sleep, a place to put his clothes, a place to put his books and reading light, and a place to sit while reading. He read a lot. People who read a lot said _he _read a lot and people who did not read said he read obsessively. He didn't mind—knowledge and power and all that. It was a different kind of power from what he had been taught, though. It was the power to speak, to articulate, to enlighten. Maybe someday he would exercise it.

He occasionally considered purchasing something to hold all the books; the stacks in his bedroom were starting to infringe on his usually meticulously neat and orderly brain. Yes, a bookshelf would be perfectly reasonable and justifiable, he decided, more times than he could count. But he always put it off.

The other bedroom contained no furniture at all. He put his broom in there and all the books he didn't read often. They too were in stacks all around the room: neat, logical stacks, of course. Organized by topic, or author, or date of publication or some other obscure method, depending on how he felt that day. It was something he did to pass the time—rearrange the stacks.

The sitting room held a sofa, a chair and a few tables, plus a small writing desk for when he brought work home. There was nothing set out on the horizontal surfaces, no pictures or art on the walls, nothing to indicate the house was actually lived in. Most sitting rooms have at least one picture somewhere, maybe tossed carelessly on the mantelpiece and dusted every other month. This room held nothing but furniture. In this room, he sat to read. During the day, he preferred it to the upstairs because of the large windows that allowed a pleasant breeze though the house when open and provided copious light.

He did not _have_ to work, of course. His mother had left him a considerable fortune upon her death and he had been given control over his father's assets while Lucius served a life sentence in Azkaban. Draco had lived at Malfoy Manor immediately following the war, until the house had been moved to the cliff. During the first few weeks, he had tried not working, electing to leave the running of the family business to the board of directors. Instead, he oversaw the design and construction of his house and rearranged his books.

Very quickly however, he came to realize that with nothing else to occupy his mind he could only rearrange his books in so many ways before he started dreaming about words and letters and numbers. They had arms and legs, and often took sides and started wars, spilling, instead of blood, black ink.

One morning, four weeks after the war and its hype had ended, he woke fresh from a dream with an idea. Before even eating breakfast, he went to his library and ordered his books by the seventh letter of the seventh chapter in stacks of seven times seven. He placed the last book on the last pile, gave a satisfied smile, walked directly out of the house, past the anti-Apparition wards and made his way to the London offices of Malfoy Enterprises. He found it terribly amusing to see the reactions of the employees when he walked in the door and announced that he was taking charge.

He worked mostly from the manor even after he stopped living there, holding meetings, throwing dinner parties, and entertaining business clients and important customers. However, he generally preferred to be in the cliff house, and so he often brought work there.

The kitchen was the only room that looked lived in. There were pots of herbs on the windowsill, tomatoes and avocados ripening in a bowl, pots and pans hanging from hooks, cookbooks on shelves, and cutting boards and an assortment of high-quality knives in a block on the counter. It was a little-known fact that he liked to cook and that he was very, very good at it. A table and chair completed the room.

The house also had a small porch out back facing the cliff, with two outdoor chairs. He liked to read on the porch and did so as often as the weather allowed. There were stairs that led to a small entry porch out front. He kept a chair there, too, for reading in the morning. He could read almost anywhere and did. A lot. Read, that is. After all, outside of his business responsibilities and work for the Ministry, it wasn't as if he had a social calendar.

He had been living there for three weeks when two friends came to visit him. "Friend" was a new concept to him. He had never really had one before, not a real one, at least, not an honest, true, loyal, I'd-give-you-the-bigger-piece-of-cake friend. And now he had two.

It started during the war, when they'd fought together and sacrificed together and got hurt together and saved lives together, including each others'. A friendship of sorts began then, which only grew once the war ended.

There were two choices of what to do when he realized that everything he had ever believed his whole life was rubbish. One, he could continue to fight for the Dark Side despite his life-altering revelation and watch his soul slowly eat itself away. Or two, he could swallow his pride and throw himself on the mercy of the lions, to be stomped on, ripped apart, chewed up and spat out. In other words, turn himself over to the Light Side and offer his repentance and services. If they would take them.

To his great surprise, they had accepted him, even after two years of service to the Dark Lord. He'd had a sneaking suspicion that _she _hadhad something to do with it, but he couldn't be sure. As a general rule, she had not been keen on talking to him, so he had given up hope of ever finding out. Her friends—now _his _friends—had been angry and reluctant and adolescent. They had not wanted him there and had resented him, for obvious reasons. He'd understood those reasons and did his best to stay away from them.

The adults in the Order, especially those who had been through all of this once before, had seemed almost eager to embrace his turn. He suspected it was because of all they had seen, all the horrible, frightening things they had been through once and now a second time, that they understood what it was like to face impossible circumstances. Anyone who truly wanted to be freed from the Dark life was another reason to keep fighting, proof that even in the Darkest times, within the Darkest people, life and light could still exist.

But he had not been able to stay away from Harry and Ron forever. Because he was pretty good with a wand, he would frequently be sent on missions with one or both of them. Sometimes they'd had to sit on the hard, cold ground for hours just waiting for something to happen. It was inevitable that they talked, or, more often, argued, yelled, and threatened. Once they had almost been made because of the fighting, so they stopped. Then Draco had saved Harry's life. After that, slowly, because he really _had _changed, they came to see it, and finally, to accept it. After that, they had begun to see and accept _him._But it had been slow. Since he had had no expectations whatsoever when he came to the Order, he counted everything positive that happened to him as a bonus. At the end of the War, he had two bonus friends who had previously been enemies. Sometimes life happens that way.

So the friends came.

_Knock, knock, knock_.

He opened the door.

"Green door," said Harry with a goofy grin. "You trying to say something, Malfoy?"

"Are Gryffindors even allowed through it?" asked Ron. "I bet it's spelled to only let in Slytherins."

Draco opened the door wide and just smirked, challenging, waiting to see if they would step through.

Ron shrugged and went through the door. He wasn't cursed or hexed; nothing happened. Harry followed, closing the door behind him.

"Didn't actually think the door was cursed," said Ron lightly.

Harry was looking around at the sparse room. "Say, Malfoy, exactly how long have you lived here?"

"Three weeks."

"I don't mean to sound…poncy, but it's a bit… empty."

Draco shrugged. "I do not see the point in changing it; I hardly care."

"It's depressing. Ginny's put—stuff—all over, and our walls are all different colors, and –"

"Harry," he said patiently. "You have Ginny. I do not have a Ginny. So my walls are white."

"You need a Ginny, mate," said Ron. "These walls are—painful." Ron squinted, and shielded his eyes, grinning stupidly.

"There is only one Ginny, and Harry has got her…" Draco shrugged.

Ron shook his head. "Not _Ginny_,Ginny; you need a _girl_, mate."

Harry laughed. "Malfoy? Ron, haven't you heard? He's—how did you put it, Draco? Unfit for romantic interaction."

Ron laughed. "Unfit? How so?"

"Perhaps we could talk about something else," said Draco.

He never liked talking about himself, especially in relation to the opposite sex. He'd had one girlfriend in his life and the relationship had been mostly a sham. They were friends now. Well, the ex-Slytherin classmate sort of friends, anyway. The kind who invited each other to parties and sent gifts at Christmas. But it had never been much of a relationship. Pansy had just been a distraction, someone to have around to boost his ego and make him look good. He had never been particularly fond of her or even nice to her in school, but she had put up with him because she was vain too and _he _made _her _look good as well. After he joined the Dark Army, just before their sixth year in school, he had no time for her and ended things. To say that she didn't take it well was like saying that Voldemort was not an old softie.

He had not had an especially easy time of things that year, but for different reasons entirely. It wasn't anything to do with her. It was as if, that entire year, he had been caught up in a giant, rushing noise that kept getting louder and louder as he waited for the explosion. Every day the sound grew more powerful, pressing on him more forcefully, until that dark night under a green glow when it suddenly stopped, leaving him in a place of silence where he could not even hear his own screams.

He had left Hogwarts that fateful night, never to return. While in the service of the Dark Lord, there was no possibility of romantic distraction. Such 'lowly' emotions as affection and love were scorned. Not that he cared, or wanted to experience those emotions. He could barely remember ever having been happy at all, so he concluded that he was incapable of experiencing that particular emotion. A man who could not be happy could not possibly expect to be capable of making someone _else _happy.

Draco's time with the Order had been very eventful, yet he had only a handful of truly good memories from the year and a half he had been with them. The earlier months were spent in isolation and introspection and he did not speak much to anyone until he was befriended by Ron and Harry near the end of the war.

One of those good memories was bittersweet, coming on the heels of his worst memory. After he had learned that his mother had been killed, _she_ had held his hand and sat with him as he sobbed like a girl for an hour. The only link to life he had had during that dark hour was her hand and he had held on tight, afraid if he let go he would tumble downward, unable to stop his fall.

He loved his mother despite the fact that, for most of his life, she had been an elusive figure at best, someone who shared his hair color, but not much more. He didn't know until later— after they started talking and developed an actual relationship—that his father had forbidden her to "have any sort of _female _influence" on him. From Lucius, that meant that she could not be affectionate or show that she cared about him in any way. When she sent him sweets at school, he had easily dismissed it as an attempt to appear better than other parents and refused to believe that his mother held him in any regard. His father's work had been thorough.

He had seen his mother just once after he joined the Order. It was on her birthday, twelve months after he had changed sides, in a park she loved in the nearest village to her home, the home where he had grown up but no longer belonged. Something told him to go there that night. He was not one to give any sort of credence to divination or Seeing or any of that rubbish, but that day he had experienced a persistent, nagging urge to _go _there. So he did and she had been there. Each had been surprised to see the other, but Narcissa had embraced him tightly, as though the next moment depended on it.

They had talked for hours. Narcissa confided her fears, her secrets, and her hopes to Draco. She told him she had never wanted that life for him and was thankful that he had left it. If she could have abandoned the Dark Lord, she would too. Draco pleaded. Narcissa cried, telling him she had made her decision long ago and now she had to pay for it. She told him she loved him and Draco had cried and pleaded even more earnestly. There was something desperate in the way his mother spoke, something in her eyes that made him nearly frantic. She had smiled, tears in her own eyes, and said goodbye.

Two months later, he received a letter from his father informing him of Narcissa's death. It was a cold letter, absent of emotion, though Lucius did manage to attempt to blame her death on Draco. He told him she had died of a broken heart caused by his defection and shaming of the Malfoy name. If Draco had not seen her that night, he probably would have believed it. While the pain was staggering and overwhelming, it could have been considerably worse.

He felt numb for months after his mother's death. He had continued in his work, fighting for the Order, trying not to disappear into his own despair, but he could barely remember that time; it was just a haze.

**ooo**

They went outside, to the edge of the cliff, brooms in hand.

"So. Jumped yet?" asked Harry.

Harry Potter. He had killed the Dark Lord, freeing Draco from the prison he had locked himself in. It was true he had freed thousands of people from fear, hate and pain at the Dark Lord's hand. But Draco felt that freedom like no other. After all, he was the only successful defector from the service of Voldemort. No one else had managed to stay alive to the end. He alone felt true redemption and release after the reality of the Dark Lord's defeat had time to sink in. At first, he had been numb.

Draco remembered watching the celebration at Headquarters after the final battle as though he were peering through a grimy window. Even though he could count some of the people in the room as friends or at least nearly friends, he did not feel a part of them. He had not been there from the beginning and had in fact spent more time fighting against those gathered than for them. As he sat in the room against the wall, his brain turned off, his thoughts stopped and he could only stare blankly in front of him. Then a round of hugging started, and when s_h_e threw her arms around his neck, he felt his breath hitch in his throat and he was thrown into another good moment. He didn't respond to her hug, just felt all of his body slowly start working again and the emptiness start to wear off. She didn't wait for him to react, just moved on to the next person. It was only after the fact that the moment sank in, and by then he could only appreciate the memory of it instead of enjoying the actual moment.

**ooo**

"Harry, if he'd jumped, we'd know about it," said Ron. "For one, he probably wouldn't shut up about it—you know how full of himself he is."

Ron and Harry were something of a two-for-one deal. Amidst all the lifesaving that occurred within the Order over the years of fighting, Draco had saved Harry's life. That started the whole "friends" and "bigger piece of cake" thing. Ron soon became his friend as well and even ended up saving _his _life at one point. Harry started keeping a running score of who had saved whom and how often.

_She_ was another matter completely. Though she had been one of the first to accept him, to believe in his turn, and had encouraged the others to truly give him a chance, Hermione had never gone on missions with Draco. While no one questioned her skills as a fighter, she was too useful as a researcher and strategist to spend long, boring hours on stakeouts waiting to see if anything would happen. Harry and Ron, on the other hand, were always volunteering for anything that might get them involved in a bit of action, regardless of how much waiting around they had to do first and Draco simply went wherever he was sent. As a result, they had never really become friends. They were cordial, even friendly, but not friends. He wouldn't expect her to show up at his house, unannounced and uninvited, like Harry and Ron did. It had surprised him to learn that it wasn't a three-for-one deal, as he'd assumed. She didn't come with the package, which was fine. Two friends were enough to deal with, considering he'd never had any before.

**ooo**

"As soon as I do it, Weasley, you'll be the first to know."

Every morning, Draco stood at the edge of the cliff, looking into the water below him. He'd figured out how tall it was—nearly nine hundred feet. Every now and then, he dropped things, just to watch them fall. The first thing he'd thrown over the cliff after moving in was a dinner plate. It was too thin and light and he hadn't been able to see the splash when it hit the water. Disappointed, he spent the next few days trying to figure out how he could throw things and be sure to see their impact. The pack that had tumbled over the first day he'd been to the cliff had been bulky and heavy and, even though the distance had been great, he'd barely seen the small splash. Finally he decided to Charm the objects to spark as they fell and then to emit a pulse of light on impact. It worked perfectly and was actually quite spectacular when he dropped things at night.

He started timing how long it took for them to hit the water—six and a half seconds. It seemed like such a small amount of time, but when he watched rocks or dishes or whatever he dropped, make their way down, it seemed he watched for an eternity. Three full breaths—ten heartbeats—four blinks. He'd become obsessed with six and a half seconds as well, trying to find things that took six-and-a-half seconds to do.

For example, an uninterrupted lift could go from the entrance level of the Ministry of Magic to halfway between the third and fourth levels in six-and-a-half seconds, if the journey was not interrupted. He could boil a large pot of water in six-and-a-half seconds. It took him six-and-a-half seconds to walk from the front door of the house he grew up in to the painting of his great-great uncle in a side hallway, the one with he best, most derisive and cutting smirk of any Malfoy he'd seen, the one after which he'd modeled his own smirk.

**ooo**

Truth be told, Draco wanted to jump off the cliff and fall toward the tumult below. Of course, he did not want to meet the same fate as his unfortunate dishes. No, his deepest desire was to come within inches of death, only to be whisked from its clutches by the broom he Summoned at some point during his fall. But when would he Summon it? Too late, and he would be smashed by the waves and rocks; too soon, and he would be saved outside of those crucial inches, and what would be the point of that at all?

Watching the various objects fall, he felt envious of the precious seconds when they were free—free to tumble this way and that on any whim or breeze. As each object met its fate—crushed and swallowed by the waves and rocks—he cringed slightly. Once he'd even tossed his lunch. In his mind, it could be _him_, dashed to pieces on the sharp rocks, if his calculations were off even slightly.

He wasn't ready to try the jump. He had told Harry and Ron about it once and had since come to regret it. They mentioned it nearly every time they saw him now. And he was no closer to jumping now than he had been when he told them.

"Have a go now, mate," said Ron, motioning over the edge.

Draco shook his head. "Uh-uh. No audience."

"Then when are you going to try? Maybe you should just—go for it."

"Not until I have worked all the angles," he said firmly.

Harry rolled his eyes. "By the time you're done with the angles, Malfoy, you won't be able to recognize a broom from a light post, you'll be old and grey."

Draco shoved him lightly. "Sod off, Potter. I'll do it…soon."

The issue was not that he was afraid of heights. He was a Seeker, after all; he flew as naturally as he breathed. He supposed that what held him back was the fact that he _wanted_ to come close to death, within inches. That did not strike him as the desire of a rational, stable individual. Maybe he secretly wished the calculation would be off just a little bit, maybe even by inches. He did not know why he wanted to jump so badly, so he didn't. He was very logical, very methodical. Almost everything he did was pre-meditated, well thought out and well planned. He didn't like making mistakes, so he did everything in his power to be sure he did things right the first time. He would have adopted the Muggle phrase, "measure twice, cut once" as his own personal motto if he'd ever heard it. Only, he would have said, "measure ten times, cut once." Or, "measure ten times, rethink the need to cut, measure twice again, have a cuppa and a nice lie down, then decide whether or not to cut." So he couldn't very well just _jump_, could he?

After staring down at the water below and throwing a few rocks down, the three friends went inside. Draco gave them a tour, which took all of five minutes. Ron stopped in the second bedroom—more accurately called the "book room"—and gawked at the stacks.

"Blimey, mate, you have almost as many books as Hermione!"

Harry was frowning. "Why are they all on the floor?"

Draco shrugged, herding them out of the room. "Haven't put up shelves," he mumbled.

"Malfoy, you have more money than you could spend in three lifetimes. Get some bookshelves," said Harry.

"I'm thinking about it," he said as they made their way to the main room. They sat.

"What's to think about?" said Ron.

"I have no great need for them."

"You have hundreds of books in stacks on the floor. I think you're approaching 'need' here," said Harry, trying to be helpful.

"I'm getting one for my room, at least," said Draco, a bit defensively. "I decided this morning."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Well, that's something, isn't it? Alert the media; I can see it now: 'Draco Malfoy, ex-Death Eater-Turned-Hero, Buys Bookshelf.' "

Harry grinned and spoke before Draco could make a sarcastic reply. "Malfoy, how many books do you have, exactly?"

"Five hundred twenty three."

"And have you read all of them?"

"Most of them, four hundred or so. I'm slowly working my way through them and I cannot buy another book until I have read all the ones I already have. I made a deal with myself."

"What happens when you finish?" asked Harry.

Draco blinked. "I will buy a new book," he said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"How long do you think it will take you?" asked Ron.

Draco shrugged. "A year, give or take."

Ron shook his head, chuckling. "You really need a girl, mate."

"You mean, like you've got?" said Draco with a sneer.

"Speaking of girls," Harry interrupted quickly. "Ginny and Hermione are coming over. They should be here soon."

Draco's knuckles turned white around the armrest of his chair. He felt a moment of panic. Ginny. And _her._

"Why?" he asked, somewhat warily.

Harry shrugged. "They wanted to see your place."

"Why? It's nothing special," he protested.

"Well, we know that _now_," said Ron teasingly.

Draco glared at him.

_Knock, knock, knock._

Draco closed his eyes, hoping that when he opened them he would be all alone with no "friends" in his house and no one else, no one who was unquestionably **not** his friend, outside his door knocking.

_Knock, knock._

_Blast_.

Draco stood and went to the door. He took a deep breath before opening it. Hermione and Ginny were on the front porch holding piles of boxes wrapped in various shiny papers and adorned with bows and ribbons and the like.

"Green door, Malfoy?" said Ginny, frowning slightly.

"I like green," he replied, peering cautiously at the things in Ginny's arms: three wrapped packages, a potted plant and a bottle of Firewhisky.

"I sincerely hope the rest of your house isn't green. It might make me ill."

"What's wrong with my door?" he asked, slightly irritated. First Harry and Ron, and now Ginny. He glanced at Hermione to see if she would say anything about the color, but she was looking elsewhere. "It had to be a color, so why _not_ green?"

"It's just that it's so…typical," Ginny said matter-of-factly. "Predictable. Do you keep snakes in a pit in the back yard?"

Draco grinned. "Why—want to see them?"

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Do you intend to keep us out here all day?"

"Oh, no. Would you like to come in, then?"

"I'm not just delivering this stuff," Ginny said. She held out the bottle. "This is from Ron. The plant is from Neville. The rest you'll have to open to see whom they're from."

Draco accepted the bottle as Ginny passed; 1967, a very good year. Then he frowned at Ginny's back. "But…why?"

Ginny either didn't hear him or pretended not to and disappeared into the sitting room. When Draco turned back to the door, Hermione was just inside it, her own assortment of wrapped packages in her arms.

"I like the green," she said as she passed him.

Draco's eyes widened but he said nothing, shutting the door and following her into the sitting room. "Granger liked the door," he announced to the room.

Ron snorted. "She doesn't count."

"Why not?" Hermione asked, rounding on him, hands on her hips.

"You always go for the underdog. Everyone else is highly offended by the door, so you like it. _That _is typical and predictable."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "No, _Ron_, I just happen to like green."

"Since when?" Ron asked, incredulous.

"Since we haven't been at Hogwarts for three years and have better things to base our life choices on than silly schoolchild rivalries," she replied, setting her pile of gifts on the floor by the armchair and taking a seat on the floor to lean against the wall, as there were not enough seats for all five of them.

Ron mumbled something and sat on the sofa beside Harry.

Draco set the load he had carried on the floor in front of his chair.

"What kind of plant is that?" asked Harry. He was sitting beside Ginny, their hands entwined.

"Oh, you know Neville," said Hermione. "Probably the some rare species no one has ever heard of. You might want to ask him if it needs feeding or anything. He tends to forget that the rest of us aren't avid herbologists."

Ron rolled his eyes.

"Well, open one," said Ginny, bouncing a little with excitement.

Draco looked down at the colorful boxes. He frowned. "What is this for?"

"A housewarming," said Ginny.

His eyes widened. "A _what_?"

"Just open," said Ginny insistently.

Draco looked at his feet. There were seven packages, all brightly and festively wrapped. Seven _presents _for him to open and pretend he liked. Given to him for a _housewarming_, as though he really _needed_ things for his house. Granted, it _was_ a bit bare…. He sighed. Better get this over with.

The Weasleys had given him a framed picture of Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny and himself, taken at Headquarters during the celebration after Voldemort was defeated. He, of course, was scowling, but at one point Hermione had poked him, likely in an attempt to get him to smile and unknowingly hitting him in a very sensitive and ticklish spot. He smiled and started squirming to get away from her. He scowled at the picture, but he loved it at the same time.

"Here, hand it over," said Ginny. "I'll see where it should go." She took the picture from him and walked all around the room, frowning in deep concentration. Finally, something made her smile, and she said, "Ah-hah! There!" She proceeded to stick the picture on the large empty wall opposite the window. She smiled, quite pleased with herself, and returned to her seat next to Harry. "Continue," she said.

Charlie had given him a desk set made of dragon leather. Draco's eyes scanned the blotter; it was a deep burgundy color, almost like blood, and it had pock marks from the dragon feathers. The rest of the set comprised a cup to hold quills, a small box for ink bottles and quill tips, a letter opener whose hilt was a dragon, and a silver quill-sharpener.

The package from Fred and George had been Charmed so that only he could see its contents. They had given him a few new products from their shop. A short note from the twins read: _Use the little bottle on Ron for a laugh. _

Harry and Ginny gave him a vase—Ginny's idea to be sure—and a thin black mat for the fireplace, guaranteed to catch all the stray ash that comes from Floo travel. The bright, flashing sticker in the corner said it would even keep ash off the traveler's clothes.

Though he had not expected…well, _anything_, Draco was surprised to discover how useful all the gifts would be. Except perhaps that vase. The items from Fred and George would be put to good use, make no mistake. And the desk set he could use for the desk in the sitting room.

Ron's offering was candy from Honeydukes, which prompted Ginny to slap him on the back of the head. "Housewarming, idiot!" she said with a scowl.

But Draco grinned at Ron and ripped open the package, pulling out a few pieces before passing it around the room.

There were now two packages left. They were wrapped in brilliant green paper, almost the color of his door, with lighter green and yellow trimmings. They were almost too perfect to open.

"Guess what Hermione got you," said Ron, smirking.

Hermione glared at Ron.

Draco reached for the smaller package, the one that looked suspiciously like a book. Why was he disappointed that she had only given him a book? He had not been expecting _any _of this, he loved books and he knew she _always _gave books as gifts. It really should not matter. He slowly removed the paper and ribbons to reveal "Crime and Punishment," his favorite novel.

It was a hardback edition, in excellent condition. He ran his fingers over the title, then opened the pages. Ah. It smelled like an old book. But he frowned. Because it was his favorite book, he had at least two copies in his possession already. And she _knew _it was his favorite book, so surely she had to know he already owned a copy. They'd talked very little about actual life things during the War, relegating their conversations to the issues at hand. But books were something they both loved, so on the rare occasions they _did _talk, it was usually about books. She didn't have a favorite, and told him that she loved them all nearly equally.

He looked at her quizzically.

"Second edition," she said with a small shrug. "I tried for a first, but it was a little hard to find. And out of my price range."

That was different. He looked at the book in awe.

"Hey, Malfoy, it's not a brick of gold, or anything," said Ron. "Come on, you've got one more."

He reluctantly set the book on the table—carefully!—and reached for the last package. It too was wrapped in green paper, and he looked at Hermione, again puzzled. _Two?_

"Just open it," she said, not quite meeting his eye.

He did. It was a framed painting of the constellation with which he shared his name. The stars that made up the image were brighter than the thousands around them, and all the stars twinkled like tiny precious gems. Occasionally, a shooting star made its way across the sky. He had no words to express how he felt at this gift.

"I thought—for your room," she said, somewhat nervously. "I mean, if you don't like it, then—"

"No, I do," he said, still mesmerized by the painting. Everyone was silent, watching him. "Thanks, Hermione." He paused, still staring. "I mean, 'thanks' isn't enough, really. I—I don't know what to say."

She beamed at him. "I'm glad you like it."

He could only nod.

"So, can we get the tour now?" said Ginny, after a moment of silence.

"Uhm, sure," he said, standing, and putting the painting down—even more carefully! "This is the sitting room. The kitchen is right there," he said, pointing to the room. "There are two bedrooms upstairs. One bathroom, also upstairs." He sat down.

"That's _it_?" said Ginny, unbelieving.

"That's it," he confirmed.

Ginny gaped at him. "You mean, it really _is _as small as it looks?"

He nodded.

Ginny shook her head in apparent disbelief and stood to walk around the house. "Hermione. Care to have a look upstairs with me?" she asked, extending her hand to pull Hermione from the floor. She accepted, and they disappeared up the stairs.

Draco glared at Harry and Ron, who were looking anywhere but at him. "Explain," he growled finally.

"Well, Ginny wanted to see your place and she'll jump at any excuse to go shopping."

"That explains Ginny and you," Draco said with his jaw set.

"She only told her family about it, Draco; she wanted to do something nice for you. They rounded up a few things too…so… surprise?" Harry looked like he was trying to be convincing but failing miserably.

"Gifts, Potter? Now what—you going to expect thank-you notes or something? With a little 'M' for Malfoy, and wax seals and fancy parchment?"

"No, of course not," said Harry hastily.

Ginny and Hermione returned after a few minutes; there really wasn't much of anything to see, anyway. Hermione was strangely quiet and she looked as though she were thinking hard about something. His friends and the girls stayed for dinner. He hadn't planned on guests, but he loved a challenge, especially in the kitchen. Fortunately, he didn't care much for shopping, so his freezer was well stocked. A quick spell thawed a couple of racks of lamb loin chops, which he frenched, seasoned and arranged as a crown roast, and placed in the oven along with a pan of potatoes and root vegetables, drizzled with olive oil. A salad of sliced tomatoes and fresh herbs completed the meal. They nibbled on aged gouda, cambozola and Greek olives while dinner cooked.

Ginny especially made it a point to comment on his cooking and the fact that he, Draco Malfoy, former Man-Priss, not only knew the difference between a spatula and a spoonula, but could cook a gourmet meal without burning down the house. She looked pointedly at Harry when she said this. Harry started talking loudly to Ron.

Draco merely smirked and watched as she devoured the meal.

Hermione, however, only picked at her plate. He really wanted her to like it; of everyone present, _she _had to be the one who liked his food. But she was just pushing it around and frowning.

Then, about three quarters the way through the meal, when he couldn't stand it anymore and was just leaning over to ask her what was wrong her head jerked around to look at him, a triumphant sparkle in her eyes.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "I've got it!" And she promptly stood up from the table and ran up the stairs.

Harry, Ron and Ginny stared at him. "What?" he said.

"What did you do?" asked Ron, suspiciously.

"Nothing! I did nothing! She just went bonkers on me."

Hermione came noisily down the stairs looking quite pleased with herself and resumed her seat at the table. Then she started eating as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Everyone was staring at her, like she really had gone nutty, while she happily took bite after bite.

"Harry, would you pass the potatoes?" she said, looking up. She frowned when she noticed that everyone was staring at her and no one else was eating. "What?" she asked.

"Erm, Hermione. What was all that about just now?" asked Ron. "You ran up the stairs like a madwoman and now you're…eating. Just like that."

"Oh," she said, waving her hand in dismissal. "Nothing." They continued to stare at her. She rolled her eyes and said, "I just figured out the pattern and had to check to make sure I was right."

Draco was glad all eyes were on Hermione because his jaw dropped.

"And were you?" asked Harry.

"Of course."

"What pattern?" said Ginny.

Hermione glanced at Draco out of the corner of her eye. He managed to close his mouth as he watched her return her gaze to her friends. "Nothing. Never mind," she said.

Harry, Ron and Ginny whined and pouted and basically refused to allow the meal to continue in peace until she explained. Hermione sighed and looked at Draco again. He gave her the slightest nod, indicating that it was okay with him for her to divulge what she'd done, to reveal his little _quirk_.

"The books. Upstairs. They're organized. I figured out the pattern."

She was again met with silence and incredulous looks from her three friends, but Draco couldn't stop a small smile forming on his lips as he watched her eyes, brimming with excitement at her success.

"That's—disturbing," said Ron, shaking his head as if to shake off the feeling he got when thinking about organizing that many books.

Ginny only shrugged and returned to her dinner. But Harry was looking at Hermione.

"What's the pattern?" he asked her.

Draco saw her cheeks flush, and she looked at him again. Now Ginny and Ron were watching too. Draco raised one eyebrow and folded his napkin, giving her his full attention.

"Author's last name," she started, still looking at Draco, only now as if for confirmation that she had been correct. "Second letter from the end, moving backwards if the letters were the same between names."

Ron dropped his fork; Ginny stared at Hermione, eyes as wide as her plate; Harry looked as though he'd seen a ghost; and Draco was calmly eating again. Hermione looked at her plate and set her fork down.

"You two," said Ron, mouth full, "are sick."

"Agreed," said Ginny.

But Draco noticed that Harry was looking at him and Hermione as though he had never met either of them before. And Draco didn't like that look, not one little bit.

Nothing else happened. His guests stayed for dessert and made more ridiculously witty remarks about his glaringly white walls, then left him in peace. But not before Ginny poked her head back in through the door and said, "I'll be back tomorrow with paint samples. Night, Malfoy!" Then she whipped her head out of the doorframe and was gone before he could protest. Oh well, maybe the walls needed painting anyway.

Draco made his way slowly to his room, taking the book and painting from Hermione with him. He stopped to peer into his book room and frowned at the books. Then he set the painting and book on the floor in the hallway and spent the next five hours rearranging the stacks of books.

At nearly four in the morning, he finished, then resumed his walk to his room. See if she can figure _that _one out so easily, he thought with a self-satisfied smirk.

Draco hung the picture on the wall opposite his bed. It was only when he stepped back to make sure it was hanging level—precisely two-thirds of the way up the wall—that he saw it.

There, written in silver paint, in the bottom right hand corner, was the artist's signature: H. Granger. Draco stared at the painting with a fresh wave of awe, once again mesmerized. _She _had done it. Just for him. He didn't know she painted; he really didn't know that much about her at all.

He liked it. He _loved _it. But that voice in the back of his head he hadn't heard in a few months was suddenly making itself heard again. It told him he'd never been given a gift like that, that it wasn't the kind of gift a friend gives, much less someone whom he could only consider an acquaintance.

The voice insisted that there was more to the gift than just the painting, that she was trying to tell him something and that he needed to find out what. The voice, however, sounded too much like his mother's voice and she had already completely addled his mind.

He sighed. The _last_ thing he wanted at that moment was to really _think _about _her _and listen to the running commentary in his mind. If he were to let his thoughts run amok, to go wherever they might go…well, he could not be sure of where they would end.

Because what she'd done, what she'd given him, was more special, more… intimate, than a gift from a mere acquaintance, if he allowed himself to admit it. More than a friend, even. Maybe a very good friend; but they _weren't_ friends. At all. So he was really confused.

And he was sad. He didn't know anyone, really. Not _really._ Not well enough to know what they were thinking without Legilimancy. And he felt alone, even staring at all the twinkling star-gems surrounding him—Draco, the Dragon.

**ooo**

**Note**: I wanted to get the first chapter of this posted before Deathly Hallows. I've been working on this one for a long time, and I really hope you like it. I have a TON of people to thank for their help on this, and I'll go chronologically. First, to Z, for getting through the first draft and whipping the story around. Next to eilonwy, for being a great beta and friend, for telling me that the story needed more work, and for making me keep going. Then to Buzzy, for her excellent beta job and HELP, and finally a little thanks to kazfeist, for helping me with Charlie's gift.


	3. Chapter 2

**Gravity**

**Chapter 2 – Golden Apples**

Ginny returned as promised the next day, with Hermione in tow.

Draco watched with amusement through his peephole as they argued over who would knock. He waited until Hermione rolled her eyes and finally reached her hand up to knock, then opened the door before her hand could make contact. He put a scowl on his face as he swung the door wide. "Would you two please keep it down? I don't want trouble with the neighbors," he barked playfully.

Hermione looked at him as though he'd sprouted an extra nose, while Ginny glanced to either side of the house.

"You don't _have_ neighbors, you git," said Ginny, shifting her weight onto one side of her body.

Draco grinned and leaned against the doorframe. He felt slightly nervous; he had never been in casual social setting with these women without Harry and Ron. "Your powers of observation are astounding, Mrs. Potter. How may I help you ladies this afternoon?"

Hermione gave him a small smile and Ginny said, "I've got the paint samples I promised. Would now be a good time to look at them?"

Draco cocked his head and looked at Hermione.

She shrugged. "I'm here for support."

He nodded and turned back to Ginny. "What exactly does looking at paint samples entail?" Then he held up his hand. "On second thought, it is nearly time for tea. Would you two care to join me?"

Ginny and Hermione both nodded and Draco opened the door for them to enter. They went into the kitchen and Draco Conjured two chairs for his guests. While he set a kettle on the stove, he reiterated his question to Ginny.

"Well, I've recently developed an interest in decorating," she began as she pulled stack after stack of paint samples, thin strips of stiff paper with a colour painted on each, from her bag. She also had a master paint book with all the colours printed in their colour families. "In selecting wall colour, usually you would just … pick a colour you like."

Draco nodded. "Then you are here to leave those samples for me to look through?"

Ginny gave him a wary look. "Would you really do it?"

He considered the question and the fact that Ginny and Hermione were there. They obviously did not think he could be trusted to accomplish the task. As such, they were there. _She_ was there. He guessed that Ginny planned to stay for a while and had convinced Hermione to come along to keep her company.

The kettle whistle went off and Draco prepared their tea, taking a few scones he had baked that morning out of the breadbasket and setting them on a plate. He levitated everything to the table and sat down.

"No, I do not reckon I would select paint for my walls, at least not in a timely fashion."

Ginny nodded. "That's what I thought. I also thought we could go through them together and pick colours."

"Okay," he said, putting a lump of sugar in his cup.

"Where do you spend most of your time when you're at home?" Ginny asked.

He frowned and started to ask what on earth that question had to do with paint colour when he was interrupted.

"Oh, these are delicious!" said Hermione, having taken a bite of a raspberry scone on which she had heaped a dollop of lemon curd. "Did you make them?"

Draco nodded, feeling a twinge of pride.

"Amazing … and the curd tastes fresh too."

"I try to make a batch every week."

Hermione nodded, chewing. "Sorry, Ginny," she said.

"I spend most of my time in the sitting room or in here."

"Then let's start with the kitchen since we're here, shall we?" Ginny asked. She pulled out one set of paint samples, bound in one corner. "These are my favorites…especially the Original Colours. Would you like to use Restoration Colours, Malfoy?"

He blinked, staring at what looked like thousands of colours. "Er…what kind of colours?"

"Restoration. They are used in restoring homes…." She paused. "I had been talking for a while about learning more, so for a gift, Harry enrolled me in a few Muggle decorating classes. They were a lot of fun."

"Whatever you say," he replied. "Restoration Colours are fine."

Ginny beamed. "Excellent. Now…" she trailed off, looking around his kitchen. "Your cabinets are a very deep wood tone so I think a light, warm shade would look nice…" Ginny stood and took the paint book with her into the kitchen.

Draco looked at Hermione who was looking through another paint book Ginny had brought. "Are you her assistant?" he asked with a smile, knowing full well the answer but feeling as though he ought to say something.

Hermione looked up and after a moment smiled too. "It was the strangest thing. For some reason, Ginny didn't want to be here all alone with just you," Hermione said, closing the book. "Imagine that."

Draco feigned offense. "I can't imagine why that would be," he said.

Hermione leaned over the table and whispered, "I think she's afraid of you."

"I can hear, you know," called Ginny.

Draco pretended she hadn't spoken. "She should be," he whispered loudly. "One of my largest snakes got loose in the cupboard this morning."

Hermione's eyes shone. "Oh, my, that sounds dangerous!"

"He's poisonous too … and hungry …."

Ginny returned to the table and sat down beside him. "Not funny, Malfoy. Now, what do you think of these colours?" She pointed to samples labeled Olive Oil, Light Challinor, Acorn, Lemon Tree, Driftwood, Tuscany, and Burton Pink.

Draco squinted at Burton Pink. "That does not look at all pink to me."

"Never mind that," said Ginny. "Do you like any of them?"

He looked from one sample to the next, hoping that something would come to him, that he would understand why people spent so much time and effort in picking out wall colours, and why there were so many different colours to choose from. He felt boggled simply from seven, and Ginny had started with thousands!

"That one," he said, pointing at Olive Oil.

"Hmm…" Ginny said. "It's a green. I rather thought Tuscany would be nice with the cabinets and the bright white trim."

He looked around the room and tried to imagine Tuscany walls but it was no use. He did not have an eye for colour.

"What do you think, Hermione?" Ginny asked after he'd remained silent for too long.

"I like Tuscany."

Draco looked at her, then back at the sample, then at the walls again. He shrugged. "Okay."

"Lovely!" exclaimed Ginny. She took out her wand and with a swish duplicated the Tuscany card and wrote "kitchen" on the back. "Which room should we do next?"

The sitting room took significantly longer than the kitchen. Instead of cabinets, there was only the fireplace to work with and the mantelpiece was made of dark wood with simple carving. Draco had not wanted anything elaborate, just functional. Ginny spent a good deal more time looking through the paint book and seemed to be having a harder time making her choices.

Draco and Hermione sat quietly on the sofa watching while Ginny walked round and round the room, muttering to herself. Draco thought it was entertaining, but Hermione eventually pulled out a book she had brought with her and started reading.

Finally, after what felt like an hour, Ginny sighed and walked to the sofa.

"Here," she said, handing him a pile of samples. "Why don't you get started on these while I go and look upstairs?"

He nodded and accepted the paint samples while Ginny headed up the stairs. Then he looked down at the disturbingly thick pile in his hands. He frowned as he sifted through the stack. "There are so many—how am I supposed to choose?" he asked himself out loud.

Hermione shifted on the sofa, bringing her legs up onto the cushions, and closed her book. "Need a little help?"

It occurred to Draco that they were alone together. Unease settled into his gut. "Er … sure."

"Let me see which colours she chose," Hermione said, holding her hand out. Draco gave her the paint samples and she too flipped through them. "Well, do you like any of these?" she asked, looking up at him.

He shrugged. "They all look fine to me."

"Well, you can't have all of them; you need to pick one."

"Just one?" he asked, counting twenty-two paint colours.

"Eventually, yes. Your room should only have one colour on the walls. Unless, of course, you want to paint different walls in different colours. I think you agreed on white trim, right?"

He nodded mechanically and Hermione looked back at the samples. "Are there any you _don't_ like? Maybe we can start with those…." She moved off the sofa to sit on the floor and spread the paint colours out around her. "Just pick five you don't like. It's a start."

Draco sat down on the floor across from her and chose five: Light Wicker, Boxington, Pot Red, Grapevine, and Baked Cherry.

center

Hermione nodded. "Okay, good. Now remove five more."

Next he eliminated Garden, Tan Tan, Burton Pink, Dooly, and Whistle.

"You don't seem to like warm colours," she said, more to herself. She bit her lip. "I wonder why there are no greys."

"I like grey," he said, looking up at her hopefully.

"There must be a reason Ginny didn't pick any greys…" Hermione said. "Well, we're down ten. Only another dozen to go."

After an excruciating twenty minutes, during which Hermione became increasingly opinionated and offered many suggestions which Draco was sure she thought were helpful, he narrowed his choices to Terrace, Linnet, and Light Challinor. Hermione called Ginny down to examine the colours and she frowned at all three.

"Hmm…" she said, looking from one sample to the next. "I had thought…maybe…" she pulled a color from the stack of rejected colors. "Here." She handed Draco card with the colour Twist on it. He made a face at the colour, then at Ginny.

"I don't think so," he said.

"Trust me," she said, in a tone that said she had settled the matter. Then she set off for the upstairs again.

"This colour is awful," he said, holding it up. "I would rather have black walls than this."

Hermione cracked a smile. "It's not _so_ bad," she said, taking the sample from him and holding it up. "I quite like it."

He gave her a look that plainly said he didn't believe her.

"Well," she mused, "It's kind of nice. It goes well with black, and the green of your door would make a nice accent colour."

He eyed her skeptically. "You mean it? Green with … whatever this is." He squinted to look at the tiny print in the bottom right-hand corner. "Twist? What does that even mean? It's not quite blue, but it's not green either."

Hermione gave him a sideways smile. "Of course; I wouldn't lie to you," she said, standing.

Ginny returned after a few minutes and told Draco she had left stacks of samples in each room.

"Have a look at them and pick your three favourites for each room. Let me know if you want help selecting a colour. You'll need to get the paint yourself. We'll help you paint, but you'll need to tell us when you plan to do it. I must be going though, mum needs my help with dinner tonight. She's cooking for some of dad's coworkers and wants things to be extra special. I hadn't expected such a lovely tea. Thank you."

Draco nodded. "My pleasure."

Ginny and Hermione made their way out the door.

"Later, Malfoy," said Ginny, waving as she stepped onto the porch. Hermione seemed to hesitate, then followed her out with a half-smile.

Draco frowned at the closed door. He had expected to be relieved to be rid of their presence, but he found the house was suddenly oppressively silent and the walls glaringly white. As he turned around to go back to the kitchen, there was a sharp knock on the door. He opened it. Hermione stood there alone. He arched a single eyebrow in question.

"Uhm, can I have—" she looked at her watch "—fifteen minutes in your book room?"

The question caught him completely off-guard. "Why?"

"Because I have a feeling you reorganized last night." She grinned. "And I'll take your gaping stare to mean I'm right. I'd like to have a go at trying to figure it out."

He nodded, more from shock than actual acquiescence. She darted past him and practically ran up the stairs. Draco stood by the door. _She_ was in his house, with him, alone. It was unsettling. He could either be okay with it, with being alone in his house with _her_, opening the door to all kinds of disturbing and unrealistic ideas, or he could _not_ be okay with it and freak out and handle the situation poorly. He vacillated only a moment before choosing the easy path. He decided to think about it later and went out outside with a book.

The front porch was much shallower than the back, only deep enough to comfortably sit on a bench, which Draco had not yet purchased. Draco had also set out a small table on which he placed the potted plant from Neville. A small set of stairs led from the porch into the yard, and a worn dirt path led from the steps around to Draco's garden, on the south side of the house. He was rather proud of the vegetables and herbs he had grown so far and was already making meticulous notes on ways to improve and expand it for the next growing season.

Beyond the garden was a grassy meadow bordered on the east by the cliff, on the west by a forest a few hundred yards from the house, while to the north and south it stretched for miles, broken only by the sharp drop to the south where the rift had divided the land.. The forest covered many hundreds of acres and eventually ran into the Forbidden Forest, magically separated from the rest of the woods.

Draco was reading when Hermione emerged sometime later. "Oh, there you are. I've been looking for you."

"You found me," he said blankly.

She sat down on the top step; he was on the third down. "Well, I haven't cracked it yet."

"Good."

There was a moment of unawkward silence that he felt sure should have been _very_ awkward. She shifted. "How long have you been doing that? Arranging your books, I mean."

He shrugged. "I spent a lot of time sequestered in my room with nothing to do when I was younger. It kept my mind off—" He swallowed, suddenly aware of how close they were and of the fact that he was about to cross the invisible line they had drawn between them during the war.

The line was thick, solid and dark, and it said quite plainly that he and she were not friends and would not ever be friends. Even after he had overheard Harry trying to convince Hermione to give him a chance, things stayed the same. Draco remembered listening at the door. Hermione had said it wasn't about chances, it wasn't about his past—she had accepted his past—but that it was something else that she wasn't sure she wanted to think about. They talked too quietly for Draco to hear more after that.

The deepest conversation he had ever shared with Hermione had been about their favorite books; they had not talked about anything of substance. He heard her speak a great deal, and she likewise. He knew that she knew his altered views on the superiority of blood, believing in causes and sacrifice. He knew that she had lightened up considerably, not taking herself as seriously and accepting one or two of her faults.

Still, none of those revelations were the result of direct interaction between them. He now had the opportunity to change the character of their relationship, if only very slightly, and tell her something about himself. Share. Open up.

But should he?

His initial response was a resounding _NO_. Talking about his life, his past, his feelings, was not something he did voluntarily. Nonetheless, he found that a small part of him wanted to share something about himself. It was not the act of sharing, per se, but the idea that she wanted to know him. She had asked and he saw no real harm in answering her honestly. He was going to jump off a cliff, after all, nothing could be as scary as that.

He took a deep breath and said, "Rearranging my books kept my mind off what was happening outside my room. My father … well, suffice it to say I did not enjoy being around when he was 'experimenting.' But I still heard thing, and by rearranging my books I could keep my mind focused completely on my task and be essentially oblivious to what was happening elsewhere in the house. At first, I would just dump them all on the bed and then alphabetize them. After awhile, though, I started to know without looking where certain books belonged in the sequence by their colour or a particular feature, and decided to organize them differently. I've been doing it ever since."

"It seems like a decent way to pass the time," Hermione said hesitantly. "Did you ever read any of the books you organized?"

"Yes," he answered. "But only when it was quiet in the house. Reading wasn't enough to distract me."

Hermione nodded and remained silent for a while. Draco thought that perhaps she hadn't been expecting such an answer and was trying to think how to respond.

"So… may I come back?" she asked.

"Why?" he asked pointedly, grateful that she didn't pursue the topic despite the dozens of questions that must be running through her mind.

"I didn't finish; I would like to try and figure it out."

"Why would you want to do that?"

She shrugged. "It's a challenge, a puzzle. I love puzzles."

He wasn't sure about this idea. "When would you return?"

"Umm, I'm free in two nights."

"What if I want to change them before then?" he asked, knowing full well he would do no such thing.

"Oh. I didn't think of that." She considered the options briefly. "Well, if you must, you must. It'll still be a new puzzle."

"So you definitely want to come back in two days?"

"If it's all right, yes. I wouldn't want to intrude…" she trailed off, doubt evident in her voice.

"It would be all right. Odd, but fine."

"And rearranging your books every other day isn't," she said with a relieved smile.

"I think trying to discern the pattern is odder than that."

"But you use such … random patterns."

Neither spoke for a minute.

"I think it is safe to say we are both odd," he conceded.

"Agreed," she said with a smile. She sighed and stood, descending the steps and stopping at the bottom. "Two days then." She gave him a tiny smile then Disapparated.

Draco stared at the space that seconds ago had been occupied by her body, unsure if he should actually believe that their conversation had occurred. Gradually his eyes dropped to the patch of dirt, part of the path to his garden, below where her feet had been. It was disturbed. Draco sighed and went to the edge of his cliff. He dropped a few rocks, timed them, and went inside feeling slightly out of sorts.

**ooo**

Hermione returned two days later and successfully identified the system by which the books were organized. She very casually asked him if she should return in three days or the next week. He frowned and said he usually rearranged every two to three days or whenever the mood struck. She came back, and then again and again until it became a regular occurrence. One, two, sometimes three times a week. She would knock, he would answer. They would engage in small talk and then she would run off to his book room. He would take something—a book, work, parchment and quill—onto his front stoop and wait for her to finish. Sometimes it was an hour, sometimes it was three. There were a few times when she had to return the next day before she got the pattern.

When she was finished, she would go outside and sit with Draco for a while. They would talk some more and she would leave. Then he would go inside and bang his head against the wall. Because he had said, yet again, that yes, she could come back. She had even started getting cocky, saying that he couldn't stump her. He wasn't trying to, and anyway, with enough time anyone could figure the patterns out.

This went on for about a month and a half. During that time, their small talk went from brief, passing comments to respectable discussions to full blown conversation. Sometimes, they would actually sit down to talk when she arrived, which might have meant that she was coming for more than just the books. They started asking about each other's days and bringing up things they had talked about the last time. It was approaching normal. Other people's normal, anyway, which for Draco was weird.

Then, one time, she didn't even go up to the book room at all. They just talked. She had had a particularly busy few days and wanted to 'toss a few ideas around' with him, as she put it. As though they were friends who did things like that. Not that he minded. He didn't generally get a whole lot of stimulating conversation during his day.

As CEO, COO and CFO of Malfoy Enterprises, he spent his time with people with whom he only talked business. There was no one with whom he held conversations, except perhaps his secretary, and those were limited to brief synopses of their respective weekends, an occasional piece of office gossip, or an exchange of a particularly good recipe one of them had tried and tips for preparing it and possibly improving it as well.

When he first took over Malfoy Enterprises, he had spent an entire month just learning exactly what the business was. Then it took another four months to clean it up. He got rid of shady business partners and employees, ended relationships with other corrupt corporations and developed an entire new business policy that didn't have 'bribe them, blackmail them, beat them' as the top three procedures for getting things done. Now things ran more smoothly and Malfoy Enterprises was actually doing better than it had under his father. _Take that, Lucius_, he thought, smugly.

So it felt strange, being so familiar with Hermione, and, by the time she left that night, he thought she thought so too. Their goodbye was drawn out and awkward from the moment she stood up to leave. He had walked her to the door, still talking. When they reached it, they paused and said goodbye again. But the conversation was resumed and even after he opened the door and she stepped through, he stood in the doorframe and she on the porch for another few minutes, still talking, until she finally said goodnight again.

It was as though they both wanted to end the conversation, yet at the same time neither wanted it to be over. She said she would be back on Friday, but the more he thought of those awkward last moments, the more he wondered if she would have second thoughts.

**ooo**

Friday morning, Draco took his broom to the edge of the cliff. He had done so many times, but when the light of the morning sun hit his eyes through his window that morning, he knew something would happen that day. Something different.

He could feel the warmth of the sun on his back as he stared down at the dark waters below, the jagged black rocks jutting up from between the waves. Something was different today, though he wasn't quite sure exactly what.

Gulls flew through his field of vision, calling out to him. His heart started pounding, as though it could sense, before his brain had formed the thought, what was about to happen. He gripped the broom tightly to keep it from jumping out of his hands.

He stared out at the sparkling blue water and time seemed to slow. The waves seemed to move with his breathing. In, out … in, out. The pulse of the world, in tune with his own.

Without warning, without thinking, he took a running jump off the cliff and quickly pulled the broom beneath him, directing it to fly him out over the water, far below. It was a small step in the ultimate course, but it was a start. He had _started_. The blood was pounding in his ears and his heart was beating wildly against his ribcage.

He had made the first jump and he was okay. He sat on his broom, letting his heart slow down and his body relax, which took longer than he imagined it would. Then he lazily flew a few hundred yards over the water, admiring its power and beauty. One day, when he _really_ jumped, he might miscalculate and end up shredded or broken. A very unpleasant thought. The sea was extremely powerful and commanded respect.

With a small nod of satisfaction directed at the cliff, Draco flew to the top and dismounted. Soon. Soon he would jump without his broom in his hand.

**ooo**

She arrived promptly at seven-thirty, announcing her presence with a sharp rap on the door. He opened it to admit her, and she smiled as she passed him. But they did not go into the sitting room for small talk, or to the kitchen for snacks as they had been doing for the last couple of weeks.

"Hey," she said, almost shyly.

"Hi. How are you?" It felt weird now, awkward. He had no idea why, no idea what had happened to insert this … new, strange thing between them. He'd had, if he allowed himself to admit it, a good time with her the last time.

"I'm good. You?"

He nodded. "The same."

She smiled. So normal, and yet, not. "Good. Well, I'll just be going then."

He shrugged. "Sure."

She practically ran out of the room.

Draco was left standing by the door. Unease crept into his veins, much like it had that first time she had come over alone. It was being alone with her again, after the awkward twist. After their last time together, something had made them both run back to their respective sides of the invisible line faster than Crabbe and Goyle ran after sweets.

Draco grabbed a book—the first book he could find—and went to sit outside on the front stoop. Just like always. But this time, he was unable to concentrate. Inexplicably, his thoughts drifted to his mother. He thought about the day she had told him about his father.

Draco had always known his father was cold, calculating and a bit touched in the head. It was common knowledge that Lucius was intolerant, evil, and thought himself superior to most. Draco had even known that his father was deeply involved in the Dark Arts, and a little hidden-away part of him had long suspected that his father was a Death Eater. The only thing was, he had never seen the actual proof. It was not a topic brought up at mealtimes or discussed over tea. So it had not been _real_ and the suspicions did not make it so. The idea that his father could be a Death Eater had remained nebulous. Of course, Draco hated Muggles, and Mudbloods, and television and Coca-Cola like every upstanding, respectable pureblood.

To Draco, however, being a Death Eater meant something entirely different than just hating Mudbloods. He had heard plenty of stories about Death Eaters even if his parents never talked about them. To him, becoming a Death Eater meant giving your life over to someone who would use and even torture his followers if sufficiently angered. He had decided after his fourth year, after rumors flew of the Dark Lord's return, never to do it, never to become one of _them_ and lose himself to another living being. That summer had been the worst of his life. When he looked back, the signs about his father were so glaring that the only explanation of why Draco hadn't read them was that he simply chose not to. But that wouldn't work forever.

At the end of his fifth year at Hogwarts, Narcissa had met him at the train station alone. Lucius was in Azkaban, thanks to bloody Harry Potter. She held her head high, despite the sideways glances and straight-up glares from other parents and a few older students. She gave him a curt nod and motioned for him to follow her. Once out of the station, she Apparated them both to their house. Still she did not speak, her cold eyes uncharacteristically bright and frantic.

It was a convincing show, and Draco caught himself shivering once or twice as he followed her through the massive house and out onto the large balcony attached to the back of the house. Narcissa walked straight through the double French doors across the patio to the stone railing that edged the balcony. Draco almost thought she would not stop, but she did when she reached the railing and clutched it tightly.

Draco stopped a short distance behind her and waited.

After a few minutes, Narcissa slowly turned around and met her son's patient gaze. She straightened to her full height and said regally, "Draco. There is … something we must discuss."

Draco nodded, a horrible, sinking weight settling in the pit of his stomach. He had read the Prophet, had discussed it with his friends and even taunted Potter. But it had all been to save face for himself and his father. But as he looked at his mother's red, puffy eyes, he knew before she said a word exactly what she would tell him.

Then she proceeded to bring his world crashing around him. He sat staring blankly at the grounds as she told him Lucius was, indeed, a Death Eater, and had, indeed, been at the Department of Mysteries in an attempt to retrieve something. He and a handful of his cronies, Draco's aunt and uncle included, fought with mere children his own age — Harry, Ron, Hermione and others — and had been unsuccessful in their mission.

She stopped then, and Draco looked at her listlessly. She looked as though she were on the verge of wringing the handkerchief she held into pieces.

He shifted his weight and crossed his arms, trying to get more comfortable but to no avail. No amount of physical movement could ease the tumult inside. "I … I had heard that much, actually …" he trailed off. When she didn't continue, Draco looked at her again and saw a strange, fierce look in her eyes. The weight in his stomach increased and he returned to staring at the freshly bloomed roses in the back garden. "There's more, isn't there?"

She nodded and continued. The Dark Lord was angry. Very angry. His trust in Lucius had been shaky at best, and his failure only weakened him in the Dark Lord's eyes. Now the Dark Lord wanted Draco to step up and take his fathers' place. Her voice faltered then and she stopped.

He snapped his head around to look at her then, eyes narrowed. He had a thousand questions, but the big one — WHY?— refused to leave his suddenly dry lips.

Narcissa crossed the patio to him and, after searching his eyes, hesitantly reached a hand up to wipe Draco's long fringe off his forehead. "I do not know what he wants from you," she began. "Bella has given me the little information I have. I do know you will be called before him soon."

Draco peered at her unwaveringly, unsure exactly how much he should reveal of his decision of the previous summer. "And if I refuse?" he asked quietly.

Narcissa turned her back to her son and faced the garden, hiding her expression from him. "You cannot refuse, Draco! It is an honor to be hand-picked by the Dark Lord!"

Despite the confident words she spoke, Draco heard her voice waver and sensed the questioning spirit behind her statement. It was as though she had said the same thing before many times but only now had difficulty really meaning it.

"I do not want this, mother."

The tears in Narcissa's eyes swelled. "You have no choice," she declared. "You will go before him, or you will be killed." Then she walked away, never once letting him get so much as a glimpse of her face.

The full weight of his mother's words hit Draco like a stray Bludger. His father was in prison and Draco and his mother were alone. Lucius had angered his master, and Draco was to take his place as a Death Eater.

Draco avoided his mother after their initial conversation, and tried to go about as though it were any other summer. He could not, however, shake the feeling of dread that sucked at his life force like a parasite. Every morning when he awoke, his first thought was, _Will today be the day_?

The waiting ended one night toward the end of July. He came home from seeing his friends to find his mother, his aunt, and a few other Death Eaters milling about in the drawing room. As soon as he entered, his aunt Bellatrix grinned hungrily and went to him, roughly gripping his arm. His mother appeared tense, but she said nothing as Bellatrix informed him that he had been summoned by the Dark Lord. After a few hushed words exchanged between his mother and her sister, the group left the Manor.

He had sworn to himself that he would never give in, never take the Mark, but once he stood before the Dark Lord he knew his mother had spoken the truth. He had no choice. He made sure to act as though the task he had been given pleased him greatly, even managing to convince himself, for the moment, anyway, that he was beyond thrilled at the opportunity. Temporarily removing himself from his own preferences, his own reality, he seemed to have been successful at convincing not only his mother and aunt, the only other people in the room, but the Dark Lord as well. He was, at the very least, allowed to leave.

When he and his mother returned home that night, his arm was still burning and the Dark Lord's words were etched into his brain. When he closed his eyes, he thought he could see them written in fire on the backs of his eyelids.

Narcissa had not spoken a word since before they had left, and her complexion was as pale as ice. They stood in the foyer, neither quite sure what to do next but both feeling as though there was something that needed to be said.

Finally Narcissa looked at him. "Do not be frightened, Draco." Her voice belied her own fears, sounding hollow and nearly cracked.

He chuckled bitterly and looked away. He felt as though he might vomit. It seemed as though his entire life had been forfeited, that instead of a future wide open, he saw only a single goal on which he would be focused until he either accomplished it or died trying.

When he said nothing, she began to cry. She did not sob or moan or weep, only cried small, elegant tears that tugged at Draco's heart unlike anything he had ever felt before.

"I … I'm so scared, Draco!" she whispered between tears. "I've lost Lucius; I cannot lose you too!"

"You won't lose me, mother," he said, surprised at the strength in his voice. It really hit him at that moment that he was probably lying to her. Something twisted inside Draco and he tasted bile.

She must have sensed it because she looked at him, tears shining in her eyes. Draco reached out to her, something he had never had cause to do before, and pulled her into an awkward hug. Narcissa clung to him as though afraid he might fade away right then.

Anger welled in Draco like a volcano threatening to erupt. She had no idea, really, all that had happened at the Riddle House that night. The Dark Lord had spoken to him alone at first, in order to provide him with the proper incentive he needed to accept his task willingly in front of Narcissa.

Distantly, he heard that she had begun to speak. She told him everything would be all right, that he needed to put up a brave, unaffected front for everyone and that she loved him.

He started at that final admission and scowled down at her. It did not matter that he had not heard those words from her lips, or anyone's, for that matter, since he was very small. She had no idea what she was talking about. _He_ loved _her_, which was why he was in the mess he was in. If what she had said was true, how could she have put him in danger? Would she have consented to a life where she was not her own master?

"You cannot tell me you did not expect this," he said bitingly, pulling out of her arms. "I never wanted _any_ of this, but thanks to you and father, we are all probably going to be killed."

Narcissa paled and her eyes went wide. "What do you mean?"

Draco hastily recovered his arm. "I _mean_, mother, that I have now been pulled into his service and given an impossible assignment. Impossible!" he yelled and then laughed almost hysterically. "You and father have ruined my life! I _have_ no life from this moment on, only a death sentence over which I have little control. I will _never_ forgive you!"

He stormed from the room, slamming his door as hard as he possibly could before rushing to be sick in the bathroom. Draco avoided his mother as much as possible for the remainder of the summer but he did not forget what she said about showing a brave face to those around him. When a friend casually mentioned a broken cabinet, Draco felt relief for the first time since receiving the Mark that would permanently alter the course of his life.

A few drops of water splattered on the dirt path, drawing Draco's attention from his thoughts. He looked up to see dark clouds in the sky, ominous and threatening and as if on cue, he heard a distant peal of thunder. He expected a shower would begin any moment, but the drops seemed to stop after only a few minutes, though the thunder continued to roll.

He wondered if Hermione had noticed, tucked away in his book room, or if she had been too preoccupied. Draco knew all too well how absorbing the task of rearranging his books could be, and imagined that sorting through them, attempting to discover the link to the order in which they were arranged, would be equally, if not more so, enthralling. In all of her visits, Hermione had not once left the room unless she was either finished or absolutely had to leave in order to get some semblance of a good night's sleep.

Draco stood and stretched. He had been sitting for a long time on a hard wooden step and felt the need to stretch his legs. The impending rain brought his thoughts round to his garden and, setting down the book he had not even opened, he started along the familiar, well-worn path to his garden. The staked tomatoes were at their peaks, and he absently ran his fingers over a particularly ripe specimen, inhaling the fresh scent of the tomato plant. Walking in the dirt kicked up the rich, loamy smell of the earth. Draco nodded in satisfaction as he considered what he would prepare for dinner that night. He did not know if he would be cooking for one or two, but he thought it better to be safe. He picked a few tomatoes and carried them back to the front porch and resumed his place on the steps.

He loved the feel of the air just before a rain, the crackling tension and the hint of ozone. It had been like on his mother's birthday the year before, the last time he saw her. Clouds had threatened all morning, but they held off pouring their offering on the earth until after Draco and his mother had spoken. She had told him many things that afternoon, but most ardently that she was proud of his choice to defect. He told her how hard it was, about the days he spent alone, talking to no one except occasionally the house-elf who for some reason had taken a liking to him. Narcissa had encouraged him to continue, to push through despite his loneliness, and reminded him that he hadn't defected to make friends.

Draco had laughed at that and then they both fell silent.

When she continued, Narcissa told him she did not think she would ever see him marry. He had laughed again, thinking that it was an odd thing to be worrying about during a war, when there was no guarantee that any of them would live past the next day or week or month. Marriage was the last thing on his mind … in fact, not even on his mind at all, and he told her as much.

She had looked at him then and smiled so brightly that it lit her entire face. She told him that he would find someone so amazing, so incredible, that she would change his life forever, change his world.

_Who knows? Maybe she'll be a Muggleborn…._

Draco had scoffed at that, through force of habit more than anything else. He had found that old habits were hard to break.

At that, Narcissa had quirked an eyebrow, cocked her head, and peered straight into the most hidden crevices of his heart and soul, saying, "Son, never say 'never'."

Her statement was not profound, or deep, or new.

For some reason, his thoughts had immediately jumped to Hermione, probably because she was the only Muggleborn he really spent any time with. From birth, he had known that he was expected to marry a suitable pureblooded witch to continue the Malfoy line. Despite all the changes in his life, it hadn't occurred to him that there might be other options.

And so, months later, Draco's thoughts turned to Hermione and he thought about the word "never", and the oddest things happened when he did. The entire world went still around him, and then a breeze came up over the field and the forest that surrounded the house. It was one of those slow-building breezes, where you hear it and see it before you feel it. He saw the treetops blowing with its force, and heard the rustle of leaves and branches brushing against each other in the cool autumn wind. He kept watching the trees sway until he finally felt the breeze reach him. What was odd was that what hit him wasn't nearly as strong as what moved the trees. Maybe nature was trying to tell him something

His mother's words about a witch someday changing his world seemed to be on the breeze, whispering in his ears and running through his hair.

He knew that if Narcissa had been there and had access to his thoughts, she would have laughed at the fact that he was sitting outside his house just because Hermione was inside it. He was hiding from what his mother had said, trying very hard to keep her words from coming true. Because it was Hermione. The one witch he knew who really could change his whole world. And Draco wasn't sure if he was ready for such a change, or if he even wanted things to change at all. His world had already been uprooted and tossed on its side twice, and he didn't know if he could handle it happening a third time.

He often wondered what his mother had meant by her simple yet telling statement. Was she telling him that she would accept someone of impure blood? Perhaps cautioning him against closing doors before he even came to them? Or was there more to it? Did she want him to be with a Muggleborn? Or, more specifically, Hermione?

The simplest and most obvious answer was that she hadn't meant anything by it at all. Snape had once told him about a Muggle churchman called Occam, whose razor said that the simplest explanation was always the most likely. It was a good theory, except there had been a glint in her eyes when she'd said it. Had there been no glint, he would have accepted the razor's theory.

At first glance, it seemed like just a harmless piece of advice from a mother to her son, but Draco knew his mother and believed that something more lay behind the comment. He had tried to recall all the occasions on which he had ever mentioned Hermione around his mother and could only name a few. Then again, he had mentioned her that day, telling his mother that Hermione alone had remembered or thought to find out about his birthday the month before.

Nonetheless, his mother's comment bothered him and he often wondered whether she had been consciously trying to push him towards Hermione or simply musing over the possibilities.

In the two months between Narcissa's birthday and her death, Draco had paid attention to Hermione for completely new reasons. He considered the possibility that his mother had known something he didn't know and tried to perhaps see what she might have seen. He noticed that Hermione was pretty when she smiled, that it was cute when she chewed her bottom lip when she was thinking hard, and that her laugh was the most amazing sound he had ever heard.

There was one thought that sent his head spinning till he felt dizzy. If his mother had never mentioned marriage or Muggleborns, would he have ever started thinking about Hermione in that way? Would he be staring at the ceiling, night after night, wishing she was there with him and tormented by his imagination of a life with her, a life he knew he couldn't have? Would those feelings have ever surfaced, and if they had, would he have been more or less accepting of them?

It always gave him a headache to think about it, and he could never arrive at a reasonable conclusion. He was left trying to push it all aside and resolving to think about it some other time. Tomorrow.

But today, she was here, in his house, looking through his meticulously arranged stacks of books, as though she liked it there, as though she were comfortable in his house. With just him. It was simply too much.

The book lay open in his lap, and he was still staring out at the swaying trees when Hermione emerged from the house.

She sat down on the step beside him this time and he thought about the line they had recently crossed. He still was not sure what it meant, or if it meant anything at all. He only knew he was moving into uncharted territory, but he seemed to be doing okay. He was even able to admit, finally, that he was comfortable with her company, that he could pass an hour with her without feeling as though he might drown.

When she came out to the porch, she didn't say anything right away. He looked up to see her watching the trees.

"Odd weather," she said. "I think it's going to rain."

"Marvelous observation," he quipped.

"I have always enjoyed the weather just before the rain. Colours seem so much brighter." She looked at him. "Speaking of colour, have you even looked at the samples Ginny left?"

Draco chuckled and leaned over to pick at a tuft of grass. "No."

"She's been asking if you had, as it has been over a month. Eventually she's going to come back and encourage you to pick the last few colours, and you know what Ginny's like when she's 'encouraging'."

"Reckon I had better get on it then," he said, feeling disinclined to follow through.

"I think I've got it figured out," Hermione said after a moment of silence.

"And?" he asked, putting the book away and looking at her.

She cast him an apprehensive look, the same way she did every time she was about to reveal her solution to the pattern. "The books are in order by year of publication first, that part was easy. Then they're ordered alphabetically by the author's middle name."

"And if there isn't a middle name?"

"Then by the city of publication."

"You are right."

She let out a deep breath, and nodded to herself. "Good."

They spent the next five minutes in further silence. Draco tried to remain completely calm despite the fact that Hermione could not seem to stay still. Either she was uncomfortable on the steps or she had had too much caffeine before coming over. As there was not a lot of room on the steps, whenever she moved she invariably bumped into or brushed against him. The contact made him shiver in a not exactly terrible way.

She fidgeted a _lot_.

"So. Draco. Uhm, how are you?"

He frowned. "I don't understand."

"What's not to understand?" she returned, her arm brushing overlong against his.

"How am I? I am fine. Are you under the impression I am _not_ fine? Have I said something to make you think that?"

She gave him a small smile. "No, I—it's just … it's been almost a year since, you know, your mum died, and I thought … maybe you might want to talk about it. And, well, I was there, so I thought maybe you would be comfortable talking to me."

Annoyance bubbled up inside him. Though he was not ashamed to have cried when his mother died, at the same time he did not like to be reminded of it. Nor did he especially want to talk about his mother, considering that he was quite sore with her at the moment for addling his brain.

"I do not wish to talk," he said shortly.

Hermione bit her lip and Draco prepared himself for her to insist that he really _should_ talk about it, that it would be good for him, healthy even. He had a few retorts prepared as he waited for her next words.

"I figured you would say that."

He looked at her suspiciously. "You did?"

"Naturally. Harry and Ron … whenever I think they should talk about what might be bothering them, or think about something that they had seen, or something that had happened to them, they just play Quidditch."

Draco laughed. "That sounds just about right."

Hermione looked at him. "I know we're different, and that you are not the kind of man to talk about his feelings. But I also know that sometimes it helps to talk. I … I just wanted you to know that, if you need someone to talk to …" She trailed off, looking down at her hands.

He felt a rush of gratitude toward her at her understanding and offer of a friendly ear and very nearly poured out every single thought he'd had about his mother over the year since her death. However, he was still himself, and he was not used to such offers, or to sharing personal details about his life. He thought that, of everyone he knew, she would be the one he really could confide in and trust, even though he wasn't sure of the status of their relationship.

"I miss her," he said in almost a whisper.

Hermione looked at him but said nothing, only moved an inch closer to him so that their arms were in solid contact. It was a simple gesture, but it said a lot. She was there for him if he needed her, if only to hold his hand again while he mourned his mother all over again.

But somehow, he did not think he would. She had wanted him to move on and he would.

A few glowworms started twinkling by the edge of the woods and Hermione looked at him and smiled. It was a dangerous moment and they both seemed to realize it at the same time.

Hermione looked down at her hands where they rested on her knees and deliberately twisted a ring around a finger on her right hand. It was made of some sort of silver metal, with a small red stone in a simple setting.

"I should go," she said but didn't stand up. "I guess I'll see you soon, then. Right?"

This was how every night ended. She asked if she could come back, and he always said yes.

But it was so easy. All he had to do to avoid sitting outside on his front stoop while a complete freak tried to decipher one of his freak habits—AGAIN—was to say no. No, she couldn't come back. She couldn't come back because he didn't want to get used to seeing her scowl at the peephole in his front door, or skip steps as she rushed up to the book room, or twirl her curls in her fingers when she was nervous. Just say no, for once, and he would never have to sit alone on his porch again. A traitorous voice told him that the same thing might be true if he said yes enough times. Never alone again.

Of course, this all came to him immediately _after_ he shrugged, despite his pounding heart, and said, "Sure, I guess." He would wait until she was gone to bang his head against the wall. Again.

Now she stood. "How about Monday?"

His brain told him how easy a "no" would make things. "Sure."

She smiled. "Honestly, Malfoy. _Do_ try and stump me this time," she teased.

His brain was screaming at his mouth for its horrid betrayal. The inner battle made it nearly impossible to form an intelligent response, so he merely grunted.

She said something else that he really wished he could have heard, because she had a sparkle in the corner of her eye, but his brain was screaming too loudly. He nodded, and she Disapparated.

Draco groaned and went inside to commence the head-banging.

**ooo**

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Harry Potter or any of these characters but I think their world is an amazing place. No monetary profit is being made from this story.

**Note: **If you would like to see the colors Draco, Hermione and Ginny looked through, and the beautiful banner that someone made for the story, check out Coloured Grey, under the auther name "floorcoaster" (that's me!).

**A/N:** Thank you for reading this chapter! I know it was a long wait but I think it was worth it and I hope you just take my word for it! I'm having more fun with this story that I can possibly say.

The title of this chapter was taken from the myth of the Draco the dragon. The constellation represents Ladon, the hundred-eyed dragon that guarded the golden apples of the Hesperides. The eleventh of The Twelve Labours of Heracles was to steal the golden apples. Heracles killed Ladon with a poisoned arrow, allowing him to freely take the golden apples. According to the legend, Hera later placed the dragon in the sky as the constellation Draco (taken from wikipedia).

Many thanks to my betas: Z (You know I adore you and I miss you like crazy), Eilonwy (Thanks for all the encouragement with this story!) and finally Buzzy, who has helped me with this story SO much. There are not enough words to thank you properly, though I will continue to try.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Draco woke up one morning and felt it again, that strange burning inside his heart, and he knew, before the sunlight struck his face, that he would jump that day. He got out of bed, quickly threw on some clothes and, without even pausing for a quick bite of breakfast, grabbed his broom and went directly to the edge of the cliff.

He stood there for a while, watching the waves crash against the rocks. He thought about Hermione. She had not returned to poke through his books, as she had said she would, nor once since then. All she gave by way of explanation was a brief note sent by owl that Monday morning stating she was busy and would not be coming over. She had not rescheduled.

On the one occasion he had seen her, at a birthday party for one of the Weasleys, she put distance between them in everything she did. When they were alone in the kitchen for a few brief moments, things between them did not feel the same. There was a strange, electrical tension in the air that he sensed she felt as well. As soon as she could, Hermione left the room.

It both annoyed and relieved Draco.

He was annoyed because she was behaving as if absolutely nothing had happened. They had had a few weeks where they were more than just two people who were friends with Harry Potter, but it seemed that was to be all. Just a few weeks. Exactly _what _they had been didn't even have a name. He wondered if you could be considered simply an acquaintance with someone you had known almost ten years, someone who had held your hand when your mother died, who had fought by your side and fended off Death Eaters with you, and who had spent time in your house, going through your things and sharing conversation. He doubted it, but they had not progressed to real friendship, leaving them somewhere in between. Their brief relationship, or whatever it had been, remained unnamable.

The fact still remained that it was gone, and it was not his fault. He couldn't think of anything at all that he had done wrong no matter how hard he tried. She behaved exactly the same toward him as she had during the War: friendly but distant, making it clear in silent but obvious ways that she did not want him to be a part of her life.

At the birthday party she had laughed and carried on around him, but never _with _him, not in that easy, casual way you have with friends. If it even looked like they might be nearing that level of intimacy, she was sure to clam up and within minutes she was out of the room, leaving him silently seething.

Draco kicked a rock and watched it sail out over the edge of the cliff and drop towards the water far below.

He stared down at the rocks below as the sun slowly made its way higher in the sky. He took a deep breath, then another, then another. The world seemed to still around him again. He closed his eyes for a brief second and his mother's face flashed in his memory. When he opened his eyes, he waited one second and then jumped, broom in hand.

Draco counted two full seconds before pulling his broom underneath him. Two full seconds of free fall, of increasing speed, plummeting toward the sharp rocks below. He had fallen for two full seconds. The force of gravity continued pulling him down for a fraction of a second even after he had straddled the broom. He frowned, knowing he would have to examine his fall in more detail and adjust his calculations. Of course he would not stop falling as soon as the broom was beneath him, which he should have anticipated. Timing was crucial to his plan; he couldn't afford to be off even by a fraction of a second.

He repeated the jump a few times, and then stayed on his broom to think about this unexpected twist. The idea of jumping off the cliff was scary enough already, knowing that if he messed up even slightly, he could wind up sliced into pieces, food for the sharks. He would have to work out exactly how long it took the broom to catch him, and whether that time changed depending on how far he fell before he called it.

Finally deciding to think about the new development another day, he flew to the surface of the water and floated lazily, allowing the gentle waves to lap at the hand he let dangle in the water.

His thoughts returned to Hermione. It wasn't as if he had asked to be part of her life or begged for her to grant him the honor of her presence, and he didn't know why she acted as though the time they had spent together never happened. They had gotten along splendidly, better than he ever would have imagined. Perhaps she had never told Harry and Ron of her visits, and so when they were together, she acted as she had before it all started. But still there remained the fact that she had stopped coming over. He had not once asked her to come over, invited her to come back, or encouraged her to keep coming. Perhaps that was the issue. She might have felt she was putting more effort into the … whatever it was than he, and then finally, after the visit when she had asked about his mother, she decided he wasn't worth the effort.

Maybe she thought he didn't want her there anymore, or felt bad for asking about Narcissa. But had she honestly expected that he would open up to her simply because she asked, simply because they had a few things in common? Had she been offended that he didn't break down and cry about his mother's death?

The one time she had seen him emotional had been completely unintentional: she had been the one who chose to see what the letter he had received was about and found him in his room, rocking back and forth on his bed. She chose to stay with him and comfort him. But after that, he refused to show any sort of emotion, especially around her. One thing he had learned from his youth was that broadcasting his emotions could give others the means by which to hurt him.

But Hermione …. She was different. She fell between the two extremes, neither hot nor cold. She showed emotion as was appropriate for the occasion or circumstances, such that he had always been genuinely touched when, during the war, she turned some of her feelings toward him. Those moments had only been in the interest of furthering the cause, but they still had meant something to him, whether he wished to accept that fact or not.

He had lost the tentative friendship he had begun with her. The one real opportunity he had to open up and let her in, he hadn't even recognized until too late. He couldn't help but wonder why she had made plans to return.

Draco scowled. The last thing he wanted to do was ask her about it.

When it came right down to it, Hermione's rejection of his company without so much as an explanation or a row made him feel as though he was unworthy of her friendship, at least in her eyes. As though hewasn't good enough for her. He did not generally enjoy thinking about "good enoughs," because he already knew he really _wasn't _good enough, especially for someone like her. He would spend the rest of his life with blood on his hands, unable to get it off, while she would remain perfectly clean. Not perfect, not at all — he wasn't deluded. But not like him, not even close.

At the same time however, he was also relieved. He was back to knowingwhere they were. More specifically, heknew where hewas – in that void where only his mother's words and not Hermione's non-friendship attention could screw with his head. Now there was nothing, the way that really, there had always been nothing. It was clear as crystal once again that they were on opposite sides of a line and that was where they would stay.

Knowingthis for certain was a relief. Draco did not have to bother trying to deny anything; there was nothing to deny.

He spent a great deal of time not denying it.

Somewhere to his right, Draco heard a splash. He looked and saw nothing, but jumped into the water for a brief swim, leaving his broom to float in the air until he needed it. The water was cool, perfect for the warmth that was already beginning to permeate the day.

After his swim, Draco felt refreshed. He went into his house, and the first thing he noticed was the stark whiteness of the walls.

Draco had never followed through with picking out paint colours for the rest of his house. Two weeks after Hermione stopped spending time with him, Ginny and Harry came on a Saturday, and together they chose the remaining colours. It had felt strange having them in his house now, after it had been suffused with Hermione's essence for so long. Perhaps it had something to do with the change in company. Harry was a good friend, but Hermione's presence in his home had been different. It had made him feel something he had never felt before: she made his home feel full, though he had no idea what that really meant.

They chose Light Wicker for the dining room, Peaceful for his book room and Pale Lupin for his study. With careful thought and a few trips upstairs, Draco chose Morning for his bedroom. Ginny was actually impressed that he had managed to choose a colour all on his own, and with a little conviction behind it. He didn't tell her that he had chosen it to complement Hermione's painting. They left him with five colour samples, two from the previous time and three from that day, and instructed him to purchase one gallon of paint in each.

The walls were unlike everything outside of his house. The sea was blue and green and grey and black, depending on its mood. The grass and trees were a dozen different shades of green, his garden was greens with bursts of other colors: reds, yellows, oranges, purples. Life was meant to be lived in color, and six weeks after choosing paint colors, Draco was finally tired of the white walls. They reminded him of Hermione's visits, and perhaps if he changed them, the memories would fade. He decided to buy the paint that day, as soon as he had eaten something.

He showered first, and as he dressed for the day, he saw, as he did every day, the painting she had given him. The stars were so incredible they twinkled even in the full sunlight.

Every time he saw it, his mind wandered to the question he had been unable to answer: why had she done _that _for _him_? It plagued him, especially now that she had apparently deemed him less than worthy of her friendship. At one point, he might have been able to argue that the painting symbolized the beginning of something between them, a kind of white flag from her to him, surrendering her earlier reluctance to get to know him better.

Now, though …. Did she regret painting it or giving it to him? Did she want it back? He had thought briefly about taking it down, but decided it really was too beautiful to put away. Leaving the painting up ensured that he thought of her a little bit every day, and he didn't want that to change. If he didn't think about her often enough, she would be able to sneak up on him unawares when he had let his guard down enough to _really _think about her, in ways that he wasn't prepared to deal with. Anyway, she'd done it for him, and it would stay. Until it drove him mad, quite likely.

But what did it mean?

She had cared enough to paint him something that incredible and personal, but now she could not stand to be in the same room. It didn't make much sense and he was forced to once again consider what he might have done to upset or offend her. He could not think of anything.

Draco turned away from the painting and fastened a set of cuff links. With a brief nod at his reflection in the mirror, he left his bedroom. He ate a leisurely breakfast before heading to his office in London.

In his professional life, the last two months had afforded him considerably more free time. Now that Malfoy Enterprises was running the way he wanted it to and he had assembled a staff he trusted, Draco had begun delegating some of the day-to-day work, freeing him of the tedium of endless meetings and minor decision-making. He focused his attentions on rebuilding the corporate image and exploring new opportunities, rather than the mechanics of management, which kept him busy, but on a very flexible timetable. He went to the office a few times a week, as needed, and brought reports and contracts that he needed to review back to the cliff house.

Once settled comfortably in his dragon leather office chair, he checked his schedule and had his secretary reschedule his few appointments. As he read his daily mail, sipping on a cup of coffee, it occurred to him that he had no idea where to find paint. He called his secretary into his office.

"Paint?" she asked, frowning slightly. "Why do you want paint?"

Draco shrugged. "My friend says it's better than the magical way."

She quirked an eyebrow. "Are you redecorating the Manor?"

"No, my home actually. A … friend who has been helping me recommends paint."

"I see. I know very little about it, and not at all where one might procure it. However, I will find out, Sir."

He thanked her and in half an hour he had a list of shops and addresses.

"This one is closest to Diagon Alley and carries the paint you're looking for. I would start at the Leaky Cauldron and go from there," she said.

"They don't sell paint _in_ Diagon Alley?" he asked.

"I'm afraid not, Mr. Malfoy. Witches and wizards generally just use their wands. You'll have to go into Muggle London for it."

"The Muggle world?" Draco repeated with some trepidation, scolding himself for not realizing it earlier. He had never, not once, ventured through the Leaky Cauldron's less obvious portal into Muggle London.

His secretary smiled patiently. "Yes, Sir."

"All right," he said grumpily. "Thank you."

Draco finished his mail and resignedly Apparated to the Leaky Cauldron. Once inside, he ordered a butterbeer with a firewhisky chaser. He had to prepare himself for the task of finding the paint store. He saw Muggle London every time he went to his office, but he never imagined having to navigate his way through it. Only once since the end of the war had he been required to venture out, and he had allowed Harry to Side-Along Apparate him directly to the restaurant where they were having dinner. He downed his drink and then looked at the door to the bar. He glared at the door, as though angry that it had no answers for him.

He put the glass down and, leaving a few Sickles on the bar, moved to the door. He peered through the grimy glass, trying to see what he was getting himself into, but could barely make anything out at all. All he could see was a lamppost. Well, that seemed normal enough. He pushed the door open and stepped into Muggle London.

It was nothing like Diagon Alley and he felt like kicking himself for not getting specific directions from his secretary. There were buildings everywhere, and shops, but it was huge. He stared around him, willing the scenery to give him a sign as to which way he should go. After walking for half an hour, he found no sign of the paint store and concluded that he was quite hopelessly lost. He stood on a street corner and, to his chagrin, recognized the run down, dingy entrance to the Leaky Cauldron down one side street. He groaned and went into the nearest shop he saw: a post delivery office.

Draco walked purposefully to the counter where a plump, cheerful woman asked if she could help him.

"I hope so. I'm looking for this address."

The woman gave him a wide smile and then pointed out the window. "Stay on Charing Cross Road and a few streets down you'll come to Shaftesbury Avenue. Turn right. Then three streets on the right, and it's after that. You can't miss it. Called Leyland SDM."

Draco stared at her. "Would you mind writing that down?"

She nodded enthusiastically and did as he asked.

Armed with a piece of paper and a general idea of what he was supposed to do, Draco left the post.

Another half an hour later, after somehow making a wrong turn and asking an old man to help him, Draco found himself in front of the shop. There was stuff all over the pavement and he couldn't help but be fascinated. He spent five minutes outside, poking through the bins that contained all kinds of gadgets he knew nothing about. Signs were posted for each bin: roller brushes, paint trays, blotter brushes, buckets and more. There were even a few tall wooden contraptions with two parallel planks connected by shorter, smaller wooden bars. He looked through each bin, wondering at the uses of some of the items with a childlike expression on his face.

When he had gone through all the bins, he went into the actual store. Row after row of gadgets filled his field of view, including a large section of what were called 'power tools.' He looked around and saw a sign that said, 'Paint,' and made his way toward it, stopping to look at anything that grabbed his eye.

When he arrived at the paint counter, he saw there was someone already there. He stood and paid no attention to the petite woman in line in front of him until she spoke. Then the bushy brown curls and posture — standing with her weight on her right leg and her knee cocked out slightly — started screaming at him. He tilted his head to focus on the sound of her voice.

"Granger?"

She spun around, hair flying out behind her. It was obvious from the expression on her face that he was the last person she expected to meet in the paint section of a Muggle paint shop, somewhere in the middle of London.

She recovered quickly. "Malfoy? What are you doing here?"

He gave her his best 'isn't it obvious; are you really that thick?' look and held up the paint samples he had brought with him. But his voice was momentarily stolen from him at the complete surprise of running into _her_.

"Finally decided to paint?" she asked, a smug-ish expression on her face.

He nodded and took a deep breath, hoping his vocal cords would vibrate as they were supposed to. "You?" he asked.

"I'm painting my bedroom."

He glanced at the paint sample in her hand and knew that when he dreamt next, it would be of her lying in bed in a room with pale yellow walls.

"Here you are, miss." The man behind the counter set a large can of what he assumed must be paint on the counter and Hermione turned around to inspect it.

"Thank you," she said, taking the paint can from him.

"You're welcome," he said. Hermione stepped away and the man looked at Draco. "May I help you?"

He stepped up to the counter. Hermione was watching him, a patient, amused expression on her face. "Yes. I need paint."

"Well, this is the right place."

Hermione sniggered.

Draco set the paint samples on the counter. "I need these six colors."

"How much?"

"One Galleon each."

"You mean gallon," the man corrected.

"Yes," said Draco.

The man examined each sample, then said, "Which finish?"

Draco racked his brain trying to remember if Ginny has said anything about 'finish.' He started to panic but Hermione moved beside him.

"Eggshell, I should think."

The man looked at Draco who nodded, having no choice but to rely on Hermione's help.

"Right. Be about thirty minutes."

Draco blinked. "Really?"

"Yeah. Just got the one machine, mate."

"Okay."

"He'll just wait in the shop," chimed Hermione. The man nodded and started to prepare the paint.

Draco watched as the man took a container of paint from a shelf and pried the lid off. Then he set the open container inside a metal box and, using the paint sample Draco had given him, put information into a computer. Draco had only seen a computer once, when he and Harry had stopped into a Muggle shop in order for Harry to purchase something for Ginny. He had been fascinated and had asked Harry questions nonstop for the next half an hour, trying his best to understand everything he could. He hadn't had much success.

Then Draco saw a few streams of liquid pour from the contraption into the paint container. The man then took out the container, put the lid back on, and put it all **back** into the contraption. He hit a button and the whole thing began to shake noisily.

He looked at Hermione, who was still watching him in amusement. "Would you … explain it to me?" he asked.

She smiled. "Sure. Basically, in each of those containers is white paint. Each paint color is made up of a combination of a few basic colors, which are added in small, carefully measured amounts to the white paint, and mixed in that machine. The result is the color on the card."

He nodded, watching the machine vibrate. "Thanks."

A few moments passed between them in silence. Then, "I honestly thought you'd get someone to help you with this. Ginny or Harry, or … Ron," she finished lamely.

He sniffed. "I am capable of doing things on my own, thank you."

"I know," she said with a patient smile. "But we're in the Muggle world. Are you sure you didn't just follow me here?"

He scoffed. "I don't even know where 'here' is. I've been wandering through this bloody city for over an hour looking for a shop that sells paint." He said it as if he was bragging, but quickly realized he was admitting to her that he had been lost, and was essentially still lost. He didn't think he could find the Leaky Cauldron again if his life depended on it. Not that it mattered to a wizard, of course; he could always get himself home.

Hermione giggled. "Really? You could have asked for help."

"I did. In Diagon Alley, and at the post, and some random old man on the street. Maybe I just didn't need _your _help. Or Ginny's or Ron's."

"Maybe," she said, regarding him and crossing her arms. "All right, if you don't need any help at all, tell me how you're paying."

Bugger. He only had wizard money on him. It must have shown in his face.

She laughed again. "Don't worry, I'll get it. You can owe me."

Draco scowled. He didn't like owing people money. "How much?"

"It'll be about 150 pounds."

He blinked. "Is that a lot?"

She shrugged. "Yeah, a bit."

"Oh. How much in Galleons?"

"Thirty."

He raised his eyes. "Really? I wouldn't have expected it to be so much."

Hermione smiled. "I reckon not, as you've had no experience buying paint or much of anything Muggle. But really, you can afford it."

"Of course," he said with a scoff. "That is beside the point! I could just color the walls by magic and save myself the effort."

"Shh!" she hissed, pushing him into an aisle and out of sight of other patrons. "We are surrounded by Muggles. Watch what you say." She paused. Then, "If you really don't want to paint the Muggle way, you should tell the bloke mixing the paint."

Draco waved dismissively, looking around him, his attention completely elsewhere. "No, I'll do it," he said distractedly. They ended up in an aisle he had not yet perused and he had just found a display of oddly shaped metal pointy things. He thought the looked like small, twisty knives, but they had no shafts.

"What are all of these?" he asked.

She blinked and followed his line of sight to the wares in question. "Drill bits," she said.

"What's a drill bit?"

She hesitated a moment then said, "It goes in a drill. You can make holes with drills, or insert screws …" A smile slowly formed on her face at his blank expression. "Want to know what a drill is?"

He nodded, and spent the time remaining until the paint was ready listening to Hermione answer all of his questions about things in the store, especially the power tools. When the paint was ready, she paid for it, and even bought Draco a drill bit. Together they carried their seven cans of paint outside and Draco shrank the cans to fit into their pockets. He handed hers to her.

"Thanks," she said, taking it from him.

He shrugged and handed her thirty-one Galleons. "Thanks. I guess it was a good thing I ran into you."

She smiled. "Reckon so."

They stood looking at each other for what seemed to Draco like forever. It felt awkward, but it also felt … almost natural. It was the first time that they had been alone together in almost two months, and Hermione had perpetuated it. She could have left him there in the paint section, but she hadn't. He wasn't sure quite what to make of it.

She smiled again and they both began to speak. She got her sentence out first.

"Are you hungry?"

He resisted the urge to gape at her. In two months, she had not made an ounce of effort to spend time with him, and now, when he had run into her quite accidentally, she had not only stayed in the shop and guided him through the paint purchasing process, but was seeking to extend her afternoon with him. Between his mother and Pansy, he had long ago given up all attempts to understand women, and so he did not even try to figure out why Hermione had asked if he was hungry. Even though he desperately wanted to know.

Then he had to think about her question. He hadn't had lunch, and a glance at his watch told him it was past two, meaning he should be hungry. There was definitely some kind of feeling in his stomach, but he couldn't say for sure it was hunger.

"Yes," he said finally, cautiously.

"Want to grab something?"

One part of him, the prideful, spiteful, vengeful part, wanted to say no. She had ended their relationship without so much as a by your leave, and he should just let her know in no uncertain terms that he preferred the new arrangement. He was also a little scared, deep down inside, because he knew it wouldn't last. They might have lunch, but she was only being polite. Tomorrow things would return to normal.

Another part, however, had missed her laugh, her smile, the way her eyes lit up when she was passionate about something, and wanted to say yes. This was the part that had said, "yes" every time she had asked if she could come to his house. He had taken to calling it The Traitor, because it encouraged the kinds of thoughts that could only lead to his heart being crushed.

However, his prideful part was soft-spoken when compared to The Traitor, who yelled and screamed and begged. "Sure."

Hermione let out a breath. "Okay. I live near here, so I know a lot of good places. What do you want to eat?"

"You live _here?_"

She blinked. "Yes …"

"In Muggle London."

"Yes …"

It made sense, but he had never really thought about where she lived. He looked around him and down the busy avenue.

"You live near here?" he asked, seeing only businesses and theatres lining the streets.

"A few streets over, right on Soho Square. It's a bit pricey, but I love it."

Draco knew nothing about Soho Square and so could only nod. "Oh," he said, looking back at her. "Er … Something nice."

Hermione nodded and looked up and down the street. "Will French food do? You've had a rough morning," she said with a playful smile. "And I know how much you enjoy eating food that's hard to pronounce. It's a bit pricey, but the food is worth it."

"French sounds perfect," he said.

She grinned. "Good. Follow me, it's just up the street a bit."

He nodded and fell in step slightly behind her and to her left.

After a moment, she turned around. "I didn't mean you had to literally follow me; you _could _walk beside me."

"Right," he said, slightly embarrassed, and he sped up to match her stride, feeling increasingly antsy and fidgety. When had it suddenly become normal to invite him to eat with her? The silence lengthened as they walked back toward Charing Cross and he wanted to say something, anything, to relieve it.

"So, you live here." He could have hit himself. They had been through that already.

"Yes. A few blocks that way," she said, stopping and pointing. "If you turn right on Charing Cross and take the second street on the left, then it's just a short walk to the square."

"Why here? In Muggle London, I mean."

She shrugged. "I like it. I feel so at peace here. Muggles are always rushing about, and it's fun to watch. Helps remind me to appreciate what I have, what I worked for and the peace we live in now." They walked past Stacey St and Hermione stopped. "Here we are."

Draco followed her eyes and saw a sign that read 'Incognico.' He gave her a sideways look.

"Trust me, the food is amazing. Come on." She pulled him into the restaurant where the maitre'd led them to a small, two-person table in a corner beside a small set of steps.

Draco was thankful for the experience he had gained dining in Muggle restaurants with Harry and Ron when they'd been on missions during the war—small, somewhat unclean places though they had been—and that one time since. .

Their waiter approached after they had been sitting for a few minutes and explained the specials, then left to give them time to look at the menu. The prices were all in pounds, but after the experience at the paint shop, he was able to roughly guess at the cost of each plate. He glanced at Hermione, wondering again what she meant by asking him to eat in such a nice restaurant.

When the waiter returned, Hermione ordered the Roast Sea Bass with Braised Endive and Sauce Vierge and a glass of Pinot Grigio. Draco chose the Honey Roasted Breast of Duck with Pomme Fondant and ordered a glass of Chateau Sergant Bordeaux.

Despite a few moments of napkin-fiddling and awkward glances early on, once the food arrived, not a moment of the meal passed uncomfortably. They ate and talked as though they were friends who hadn't seen each other in a while and were making up for lost time. They had never talked like that before, as though they mattered to each other, even on their most open evenings in his kitchen though they had come close, that one night when she had not gone up to the book room at all. As he realized it, a small lump formed in the pit of his stomach because he knew how that had ended and did not want to think about it too much.

Draco couldn't believe how easy it was to talk to her. She listened as though she really cared about what he said, making intelligent, thoughtful remarks and asking probing questions. They didn't discuss anything profound or life-changing, but the whole _thing _was life-changing in that small, ripple-effect sort of way. It made just a tiny splash but the long-term repercussions would be huge. He could feel it.

And they laughed. He couldn't remember everlaughing so hard, or so often, and most definitely not all in one sitting. Something inside him swelled impossibly at the idea, the knowledge, that hecould make herlaugh like that. The traitorous part of his mind had long ago silenced the prideful part, and his thoughts wandered with little inhibition around the idea of her With him_. Them._

They continued talking even after they were finished eating and ordered dessert: Vanilla Pannacotta with Poached Rhubarb and a scoop of vanilla ice cream, which they shared. When they had finished eating, and just a few puddles of melted ice cream remained on the plate, Draco felt completely at ease. Then he began to get worried, a tiny worm niggling in his gut, because he did not ever want to stop. He had never felt so sure of the world than when she was smiling at him, sipping gracefully from her glass of wine, her eyes sparkling.

It was a false sense of intimacy, however, and Draco should have paid more attention to the paths his thoughts were taking. He realized that he still very much wanted to know what had happened two months previously that caused her to stop coming over.

He almost stopped himself in time, his conscious mind almost caught up to the stream of thoughts racing beside it, but realization came a moment too late. Draco opened his mouth and asked her the seemingly harmless question he had not been able to get out of his brain.

"Why didn't you come back?"

Hermione's smile faded.

As soon as the words were out of Draco's mouth, he wanted to impale himself on his dinner knife. His mind raced in circles, trying to answer the question he was internally screaming: Whyhad he done that?

But he had done it, and it couldn't be undone, because everything flew back into place. The prideful part of his mind trounced The Traitor, reclaiming its place at the front of Draco's consciousness, its claws sunk deep.

"Oh, well, uhm, actually …" she stuttered, looking around at anything but him, clutching at the napkin in her lap. "It's … a long story …"

At that moment, their waiter came by with the check and politely reminded them that the restaurant closed at three—now ten minutes past—to prepare for dinner.

Hermione looked as though she would rather do anything than answer him. Then something started beeping, and Hermione jumped. She reached into her bag and rummaged around for a moment before looking at him sheepishly. "Alarm. I … I've got to meet Ron." She stood, quickly. "I'm sorry, I really am."

Draco's mirth had evaporated when her smile froze and the light dancing in her eyes faded. He wanted to be as far away from her as possible at that moment.

"No problem," he said, reaching for the check, then paused. "I would get this … I'll pay you back."

Hermione reached into her purse, counted out the required amount for the bill and handed it to Draco.

"How much do I owe you?" he asked, reaching for his moneybag.

"Don't worry about it," she said, looking toward the door. "We can settle up some other time."

"Oh. All right. Go on, I'll take care of the rest." _Leave, __already_, his mind shouted.

She stood and gathered her jumper and purse. She took three steps, then turned back to him and said in a rush, "Let us know when you paint. We'll come help."

He nodded and muttered and then she was gone.

**ooo**

It was three weeks before he saw her again.

_Knock, knock, knock_.

It was a Sunday, sometime after lunch. He had been reading a few reports, preparing himself for the start of the workweek and he scowled at the interruption. There was another, more forceful knock. Draco sighed as he slowly made his way to the door and looked through the peephole. All he saw was an eye. He jumped back in surprise. Then he shook his head and slowly opened the door.

Fred Weasley was pressed against the door, his face very close to the peephole. When he saw Draco, he grinned. Ginny looked at him as well, an inquisitive and expectant expression on her face. He opened the door wider and saw that Fred and Ginny were not alone. Also standing on his front stoop, and on the grass below, were George, Harry, Ron, Neville, Hermione, Molly and Arthur.

Eyes wide, he looked back at Ginny, who seemed to be leading the group. "May I help you?"

"Well, Malfoy, Hermione told us weeks ago that you bought paint. I waited, expecting to hear from you within the week, two at the most. It's been three, and I finally realized you had no intention of asking for help. So … we're here to offer our assistance."

"With all ten of us, we'll knock this job out in no time," said Fred, grinning.

"Er … sure, okay," Draco replied. All six Weasleys plus Harry, Neville and Hermione paraded past him, carrying long wooden poles like the ones that Draco remembered seeing at the paint shop.

Ginny led the group into the sitting room and started handing out assignments. "Fred, George." She held out a few rolls of what looked like large, blue Spellotape. "Go tape off all the rooms—windows, moldings, the door—then move and cover all the furniture with a Repellant Spell. And remember those rags we brought? Transfigure them into drop cloths to cover the floors and be sure to tape them to the baseboards. Once you're done, you two will paint the book room."

"Right-o," said George pleasantly. Fred accepted the blue roll and they ascended the stairs to begin their task.

"Mum, Dad, once they've finished the taping, you'll take the kitchen. Ron, Neville, the small study area. Harry, you and I will paint this room. Hermione, Malfoy—" she looked at him. "Your room." As she spoke, the pairs moved off toward their designated room, and finally Draco and Hermione were alone with Harry and Ginny.

"Ginny," said Hermione under her breath. The other woman looked at her pointedly and they seemed to carry on a complete conversation without opening their mouths. Finally Hermione gave a small huff and said, "Fine."

"All right, well then. Where's the paint?" Ginny asked.

He blinked, still amazed that all of a sudden, his house was full and about to be forever altered. In a way, he felt slightly relieved, with the pressure of trying to decide when to paint, how to go about it, and who to ask completely lifted. "It's all in the book room," he said.

Ginny nodded to Harry, who took off up the stairs. Then she picked up two of the wooden poles, only now he saw that each had a fuzzy tube on one end which he also recognized from the paint store. She handed one to Hermione and one to him. "Any questions?" she asked.

Draco opened his mouth, not sure which one he should ask first, but Hermione spoke first.

"We can handle it. I've done this before."

Ginny nodded and picked up a stack of trays. "I'm going to put one of these in each room. Have fun!" she said and left the room.

Hermione sent him a small smile and turned to go upstairs. He followed after she disappeared, passing Harry on the stairs.

"I've put your paint can in your room," he said quickly.

Draco mumbled something and continued toward his room.

He paused outside his bedroom and only then thought to wonder why he had been paired with Hermione. Most of the others made sense, but it would have been equally acceptable to pair him with Neville and Hermione with Ron. He didn't want to think about it too much as it could only lead to trouble.

"Going in?" said Ginny, handing him a tray.

Draco nodded and as he approached his bedroom, met Fred and George as they left it, tossing the roll of tape between them as they went to the book room. He sighed and entered, his head full of lead, to find Hermione opening the can of paint.

She looked up and motioned for him to approach her. "I need the tray," she said. He handed it to her and she poured in some of the paint. When she finished, she looked up at him. Their eyes locked for a brief instant, then he looked away, and his eyes landed on her fuzzy tube pole, currently lying on the floor.

"What's that?" he asked, pointing. "I saw them at the paint shop but never found out what they do."

She picked it up. "It's a roller brush. See?" She spun the fuzzy tube. "Watch." She put the roller brush in the tray and coated the fuzzy part with paint. Then she went to the wall and started painting. She instructed him to make a "W" pattern over and over with the brush, all over the walls, be careful not to get too much paint on the brush as it would leave clumps, and to use an actual brush in the corners.

"What about the painting?" Draco asked. "Will it get in the way?"

Hermione froze and looked around the room until she saw it. She went to it and reached out as though to touch it, but pulled back. "Yes," she said finally.

Draco carefully took the painting off the wall, set it in his bathroom and shut the door so there would be no chance for anything to happen to it. Then he dipped his roller in the paint tray and started painting. He worked on the wall opposite Hermione, and they both moved clockwise. Draco was surprised at how quickly it went. After twenty minutes, they were done.

"Great!" he said, tossing the brush down and happy to note that not a drop got on his floor.

Hermione looked at him and smirked. "We're not done."

He frowned. "Why not? Walls are painted, aren't they?"

"The walls need more than one coat of paint."

"Why?"

"To make sure to cover all the spots. You'll see. Now we'll cast drying spells on the walls to get the paint dry, then do it all again."

"And then we'll be done?" he asked hopefully.

"Nope, it'll probably take one more coat."

"Three?" he asked, feeling panic well inside him. He was stuck in his room for three coats of paint with Hermione. After the way she had run out of the restaurant the moment he had attempted to discuss their non-relationship, he was extremely reluctant to start anything again.

She nodded. "Come on. Help me dry." Drying the paint took another ten minutes.

About halfway through painting the second coat, Hermione spoke. "I really like this color."

Draco nearly dropped his roller. He was certain he would never understand her, even if they lived a thousand years together. Why would she avoid him for a month, and then tell him she liked the color, as though nothing that had happened between them had meant anything? Why couldn't she just paintlike she was supposed to, and then leave?

"Oh, er … thanks," he muttered.

"What made you choose it?"

He looked at her to find that she was looking directly at him. _Hmph._

"Complements my eyes," he lied, straight-faced.

She cocked her head. "Come on, seriously. Ginny said you were quite adamant about this one and, as I remember, you could not have cared less about the other rooms we chose."

He shrugged and looked away.

"Fine. Don't tell me."

_Why should I? _he wanted to yell at her. They weren't in a place where he could tell her such a thing; they weren't friends. Once again, two parts of him battled for supremacy, one telling him that she didn't deserve an answer, not after the way she had left him, and the other urging him to tell her in order to see her reaction. He had chosen the icy blue because of her painting. The color would look perfect behind the silver-framed, midnight blue painting with diamonds in the sky. If he told her, she might think about it too much and draw a few conclusions of her own.

They finished the second coat and the subsequent drying in silence, and started the third and final coat.

Somehow, about halfway through, they ended up next to each other. As Draco painted, he felt something wet on his hand and looked to find small blue dots on the outside of his left hand and arm, the side on which Hermione stood.

"Hey, watch it," he said crossly, wiping the paint to get it off his hand only to smear it.

"I didn't do it on purpose," she said. "Sometimes paint splatters, Malfoy."

"Yeah, well, try not to let it happen again," he said.

"Oh, okay," she said sarcastically.

A moment later, Draco felt more paint on his arm, but when he looked at it, he saw a single, large drop. He looked at Hermione, who was trying to hide a smile, a small, pleased-with-herself, guilty kind of smile. She wasn't trying very hard. He blinked and turned back to the wall, an idea bursting into his mind. She was wearing a sleeveless shirt and she did deserve it, really. He ran his finger over the fuzzy tube, coating it in blue paint.

He paused; the prideful part of him quietly registered its objection to engaging Hermione more than was strictly necessary. The objection only lasted a brief moment, however, as his traitorous side shouted its encouragement. After all, Draco had something of a competitive nature. He liked to win at whatever challenge was presented. He had been taught that winning was almost as important as breathing, though he had made a conscious effort to curb his inclinations, or at least reserve them for the business arena. But Hermione had started it and he would not be outdone.

Very casually, he reached over and drew a blue line from her shoulder to her elbow with the paint-coated finger.

"Hey!" she cried, jerking her arm away.

"What?" he asked, daring her to complain. Thinking they were now even, he returned to painting and failed to notice the look of mischief that crossed Hermione's face. In a few short moments, during which she dipped a finger in the paint which she flicked at him, then wiped the finger clean on his shirt, he realized that she had declared a paint war, and in about ten minutes there was paint everywhere, quite a lot of it on them.

Finally Draco saw an advantage, and backed Hermione into one of the wet walls, getting paint on her clothes and messing up the coat they had just put on the wall as he smeared paint on her forehead. Then he held her lightly but firmly against the wall so she couldn't retaliate. She was smiling at him, blue paint on her nose, right cheek, and in her hair. Draco's heart skipped a few beats as he smiled back at her, getting lost in the depths of her eyes, both of them breathing hard from their battle. He was intensely aware of just how close they were, close enough to see the hesitation in her eyes, close enough to catch a faint hint of her scent through the odour of paint that permeated the room. She smelled wonderful.

He saw Hermione suck in her breath and glance at his mouth. His throat went dry and he did the safest thing he could to do. If he wasn't careful, he would do something for which he would forever beat his against the wall. Like kissher. And he really, really wanted to kiss her. But he did not want to face the aftermath of kissing her, and so he took a tiny step backwards.

He smirked. "Looks like I win."

She pushed him off, still smiling, but it was slightly different now. "Just because you're stronger. Not because you're better."

"So? I still win." He retrieved his roller brush and resumed his chore, keeping an eye on Hermione as she cleaned the paint from her clothes and face and then went to work repairing the damage to the paint on the wall behind her.

When they were finished, Draco set his brush down and stooped to pour the remaining paint back into the can from the tray. Suddenly he felt pressure on his head. He barely had time to wonder what it could be when the pressure started to move and he realized what was happening. Hermione was using her roller brush on his head.

She giggled as she drew the brush from the crown of his head to his neck.

Draco made no comment or sound, but carefully picked up the tray and, quick as lightning, stood, turned around, and poured its remaining contents on her head.

She squealed, and wiped paint out of her eyes, but they were still shining, still mischievous. She refused to give him the final word and picked up the paint can, half-full.

Draco's eyes widened. "No," he said, taking a cautious step back.

She was grinning maniacally. "Oh, yes, I think so."

"No," he repeated. They were circling. He couldn't help but smile.

"Too bad. It's going to happen. There's not a thing you can do."

"You're bluffing. You want me to say that you win."

She shook her head. "I _do_ win, Malfoy."

"Don't do it, Granger. I'm warning you. Bad things – " _Will happen_. He would have said a lot more, too, that she won and he would pay homage to her as queen of paint, but he didn't get to say anything, because she did it – she doused him.

A large, heavy, wet, thick glop of paint hit him in the chest, splashing up into his face and then dripping all the way down his body. He closed his eyes just in time and silently praised the phenomenon that was reflex. Then he stood there, eyes closed, listening to her cackle. He was trying desperately to will the paint away, but to no avail. Then he wiped his eyes and looked menacingly at Hermione. She shrieked. He growled.

"Oh, you're going to get it."

"Really?" she teased. "I don't think so, because, you see, there's no paint left."

He paused. "That's a good point. I've decided we should call a truce."

She cackled again. "Of course, now that you're _covered _in paint! Looks like _I _win after all."

He shook his head and smiled genuinely at her. "You are right, you know. I think you deserve a great – " he stepped toward her " – big – " another step " – hug!" He ran after her. She shrieked and ran away from him, running around furniture to get away. She was laughing the entire time, a beautiful, melodious sound.

Draco was faster than she and he caught her arm and spun her toward him, causing her to almost trip. He wrapped an arm around her waist to both steady her and pulled her tight against him. She struggled, her face buried in his chest, trying to push him off.

Still laughing.

He was too strong though, and she eventually fell still. They stood for a few seconds, wrapped tightly in an unexpected embrace. His heart was pounding so furiously he knew she could feel it. She was breathing heavily and he felt one of her hands clench around his shirt.

Then he let her go and said roughly, "I win." He tried to appear calm, but his head was spinning.

She crossed her arms, staring at him with wide eyes. Neither spoke for what felt like an eternity and he thought she might be angry, but she finally smiled. Then screamed in frustration.

"Argh! That was _s__o _unfair! Why should youget to win?"

"Well," he said, a swagger in his tone that he didn't feel, still trying to keep his heart from leaping out of his chest. "I am faster, stronger, and smarter. Plus, being devious, underhanded and sneaky are things I excel at."

Just then another voice sounded.

"What happened here?"

It was Ginny; she had come to examine their progress.

"We're done," said Draco casually. "Just have a little clean-up to do."

Hermione laughed.

Ginny stared at them open-mouthed. "A _little_? You're both covered! How – no, never mind, I don't think I want to know. Everyone else is finished painting. Would you like to see your place, Malfoy?"

He blinked and the point of all of them coming to his house hit him in the gut, hard. His entire house was now painted in bright, vivid colours. Most of him thought that no, he did not want to see the rest of his house. Not until everyone was safely away from him, in case he didn't like something. He really couldn't be held responsible for what happened.

"We'll be right down," said Hermione.

He looked at her, but said nothing. Ginny left after a sideways glance at Hermione.

"_We _will be right down? Why did you say that?"

"Because we can clean this up quicker if we work together. And in case you haven't noticed, we're covered in paint. We can't go walking through your house like this."

"Oh. Well … right. Let's get to it then."

She smiled at him. It was a really nice smile.

"What?" he asked, trying to sound really annoyed.

"Nothing. Only, blue looks good on you. When it's all over you, that is."

He smirked. "Nice, Granger. Look in a mirror lately? It's all over you too."

"You should have seen your face when you realized what I was going to do!" she giggled. "Wish I'd had a camera!"

He shook his head, the picture of her face as she held the paint can burned into his mind's eye. "I didn't actually think you would _do_ it, though. You're crazy."

"You didn't?" she said, her eyes shining. "Hmm … I'll have to remember that."

They cleaned up the room, getting all the paint off the surfaces where it wasn't supposed to be, including their clothes and their hair. They were about to go downstairs when Draco noticed a little bit of blue left on Hermione's cheek. Without thinking, he reached up and tried to wipe it off; it had dried, so he gently used his fingernail to scratch it off.

"There," he said, drawing away from her. The look in her eyes was incredible and indescribable.

"Thank you," she whispered. She looked at him, right in his eyes. It was more than a casual glance, it was as though she were lookingfor something. Her eyes were brilliant and shining and radiating their own light.

Whether she found what she sought or not, he didn't know. It had been only a few seconds really, though it had seemed an age. But he felt that it had meantsomething, if only she would tell him what.

Hermione gave a small sigh and a tiny smile, and then left him to mull in a sea of confusion and the crackling of hope and desire.

Which he would promptly do his best to quash.

**ooo**

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Harry Potter. This is all for fun.

**A/N: **Thank you so much for your patience and for reading! Oodles of thanks to my betas, Z, eilonwy, and Buzzy. Without you … well, this story would still be sitting on my jump drive, waiting patiently for me to do something with it. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate you! BETAS ROCK!


	5. Chapter 4

**Gravity **

**Chapter 4 **

"Mate, pass the juice."

"Ron, get up and get it yourself."

Ron scowled at Harry, then turned to Draco, his mouth open to speak.

"Weasley, I am most certainly not going to pass you the juice."

"Fine!" he grunted and pointed his wand at the bottle. "_Accio_!" It flew into his outstretched hand. "Thanks for nothing."

"Why should we give you the juice when you can just do that, Ron?" asked Harry, popping a peanut into his mouth.

"Because you're my friend. And I had to get my wand out of my pocket."

"Weasley, could you _be _more lazy?" said Draco, scoffing and tossing a Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Bean into his mouth. Watermelon.

It was the perfect October night. There was not a cloud in the sky and only a thin sliver of the waxing moon, leaving the black velvet sky dotted with millions of tiny points of light. Draco had already located a few of his favorite constellations, including the one that shared his name.

Harry and Ron were over to show Draco what in the world was so fun about camping the Muggle way. During the war, the three of them occasionally had to make camp overnight, always using wizarding tents. After they became friends, Harry would go on and on about Muggle camping, saying that it was really camping, whereas the wizarding version was more like having a portable house. It wasn't the same thing at all.

Ron had pointed out that Harry had never actually **been** camping the Muggle way, and the two of them made a pact to try it out first thing after the war. They'd bought all the gear and Hermione had found them books on the subject, and then because they didn't crack them for two months, made brief 'need to know' notes from each one. Harry and Ron had fallen in love with camping after the first night and now tried to go as often as possible. They had invited Draco every time, but he had always declined, stating he would rather sleep in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor between rotting corpses than on the ground.

They had finally made a bet with him and if he lost, he had to join them for one night. If he didn't fall as instantly in love with camping as they had, they would never ask him along again. Draco accepted the bet and lost, only to find out that Harry and Ron had been given information which gave them a distinct advantage. Draco had been so impressed at their devious work that he agreed to go camping even though they had essentially cheated, feeling certain that he would not adore the activity, and one night was worth the promise they would never ask him again. Besides, once they were asleep, he could Transfigure his sleeping bag into a mattress.

Harry and Ron had brought tents and sleeping bags, plus canned food and all the traditional accoutrements of camping. Now they were sitting around a campfire that Harry had started and built without magic in front of Draco's house, tents set up behind them, eating terrible food because that was what you ate when you went camping. Draco couldn't help but think longingly of the pot roast he had in the freezer only a few yards away.

Though he still could not fathom why someone would wantto leave the comfort of his or her home and sleep on the ground, he had been forced to admit that up to that point, he was enjoying himself. He especially liked the fire, the way it kept him warm despite the chilly air around him. While that experience was nothing new, he had always seen outdoor fires used as either tools of destruction, or a means to stay warm. He had never had the opportunity to simply sit and stare into the fire, watch the flames lick the air, moving, growing and breathing.

Harry and Ron were presently roasting marshmallows – a white, puffy, and vile food – on long, thin wires in the fire to make what they had called 's'mores.' Draco had agreed to try one despite the funny name, since they both insisted the food was part of the camping ritual and it wouldn't be considered camping with them.

Harry had cooked their dinner over the fire, a bean dish and a can of corn, and they had consumed just enough mead and ale to be well on their way to not being able to feel the ground on which they were to sleep, which was quite fine with Draco.

Ron turned his marshmallow and Harry gasped and quickly pulled his out.

"Bugger!" he said, blowing out the flames engulfing the white puffy thing.

"Is that not right?" Draco asked.

Harry glanced at him and sighed. "No. You want them to heat all the way through. If they catch fire, they'll just be black on the outside, but cold on the inside."

"Oh," he replied, though he had no idea what Harry meant.

Ron then pulled his out, a nice, medium brown on the outside. "See?" he said, holding it up for Draco to get a good look.

"Er … that looks great. When may I try a s'more so I can get this part over with?"

"Now," said Ron, putting the confection together. He handed Draco a kind of sandwich with crackers, chocolate, and those marshmallow things. It was sticky and runny, but he tried it anyway and decided he had never tasted anything so delicious. He took a sip of ale to wash it down.

Ron cooked another marshmallow while Harry made himself a s'more. Ron glanced at Harry and then said, "You'll never guess who I ran into yesterday."

Ron was always running into interesting people; he played professional Quidditch for the Tornadoes.

"Who?" said Harry, sounding slightly too interested after Draco displayed his usual lack of attention whenever Ron told them they'd never guess something.

"Pansy."

Draco spat out the last sip of ale he'd taken. "Bugger!" He cleaned the mess off his shirt and poured himself another glass. Then he looked at Ron. "Pansy. Really."

"Yes."

"When? Where did you see her?"

"We played Marseilles last night and she lives there. After the match she came by to say 'hi'."

Pansy. She had been the closest thing to a friend Draco had before Harry and Ron. She had switched sides during the War too, not cut out for the grueling, demanding and gruesome life of a Death Eater—or daughter of one. She had changed alliances before Draco, but with nowhere else to go, she went to him. When she appeared in his bedroom one night, soaking wet and filthy, Draco took her in and hid her in his family's house. He hadn't yet made his decision to defect, but he had to take her in; they'd been playmates as children.

Then Draco switched and went to the Order. He had tried to convince Pansy to join as well, but she refused, claiming that she wanted no part of the war. He told her that the war would affect everyone, in some way, before the end. The confining lifestyle Pansy lived in Malfoy Manor eventually became too much for her, and a year before the Dark Lord fell, she left. Draco hadn't seen her since.

He shook his head at the memories. "How is she?"

"She's good," said Ron, glancing at Harry. "She asked about you." Both Harry and Ron watched him intensely, waiting for a reaction, and Draco got the feeling they'd talked about this already.

"And?" he said, taking another drink.

"I told her you were good." Ron paused.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Fascinating." He popped another Every Flavour Bean—Grass—_Blech_. As he chewed, a nebulous idea tugged at the corner of his consciousness. He decided to follow the idea, see where it might lead. "She seeing anyone?" he asked conversationally, even though he already knew she wasn't.

"No, she's not."

"Didn't think so. She hasn't mentioned anyone lately."

Ron's jaw dropped. "You've seen her?"

"No. It's called owl post, Weasley. She lives in France, remember?"

"When's the last time you saw her?" he asked, taking a bite of his s'more.

Both he and Harry were acting strangely. Draco couldn't imagine what Ron was on about, unless … unless Ron wanted to see Pansy again.

"Ron, just ask him already," said Harry.

Draco looked between his two friends. "Ask me what?"

Ron turned bright red, swallowed his bite, and blurted, "How do you feel about her?"

Draco frowned. "Who? Pansy? She … is my friend, for lack of a better word; has been since we were very small. Why?"

"Do you, uh, have any deep-seated, repressed, unexpressed, or unrequited feelings for her?" Ron asked, shifted in his seat.

Draco laughed. "You're asking me if I'm secretly in love with her, aren't you?"

Ron grinned sheepishly and nodded.

Draco laughed harder. Harry and Ron exchanged another look, this one clearly telling Draco they thought his sanity had jumped off the cliff. "Oh, you were scaring me there for a minute."

"So … that's a … no, then?" said Ron.

"Merlin, yes. No, I'm not pining away for Pansy." He chuckled again. "Why?"

"You're sure? Completely sure?"

"Yes, Ron, I'm entirely sure. Any and all infatuation I might have had for the girl was gone before fifth year started." Draco crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair, enjoying Ron's discomfort. "Now, tell me. Why do you ask?"

Ron seemed somehow more relaxed and more nervous than he had been. "I, well, we had a nice time."

Draco was pleased; listening to the niggling had yielded results. "_You _like her."

Ron squirmed. "Is that okay?"

Draco studied him. "Why ask me? Shouldn't you be asking her?"

"I plan on getting to that, but first I needed to know you wouldn't rip my arm out if I was interested in her."

"Well, I'm feeling generous right now. After all you made me a s'more. So I won't rip your arm out tonight." Draco paused. For some reason he couldn't identify, he liked the idea of Ron with Pansy. Ron was easy-going, Pansy a bit high strung. Ron was good natured and trustworthy, whereas Pansy was often too trusting with men. She jumped with both feet, never cautious enough. She needed someone who would catch her, keep her from falling flat on her face, and then jump with her.

"Incidentally," Draco said, interrupting Harry and Ron's conversation. "Why do you like her?"

Ron exhaled nervously. "Uhm, I mean, I saw her last night, but we talked for about four hours after the game. We went to a coffee shop, and the hours just passed. She's funny and she laughs so easily."

Yeah, Draco knew about laughter.

"And she's beautiful," Ron added, a far-away look in his eye; Draco smiled. "She's the most beautiful girl I've ever seen." He looked at Draco. "So, it's okay with you?"

"Weasley, two things. One, you don't need my permission to go after Pansy. The very idea is absurd. And two, even if for some reason you _did _need my permission, if I said no, you should have the guts to go for her anyway if you really like her." He wanted Ron to _really_ like her. Because Pansy was a special girl and she deserved attention and affection from a decent bloke

"Just say yes, please? I don't want you getting upset with me if you see us together and suddenly remember that you _do _love her."

"Ron, I don't like Pansy that way. I never will. I wish you all the best in your pursuit. Okay?"

"But – "

"You're not getting me to say those words. But understand this, Weasley. If you hurt her, then I _will _rip your arms off. And make you eat them. Clear?"

Ron nodded, and Harry smiled.

"Good. Now let me give you some advice about Pansy. Don't fall quickly." Both Ron and Harry looked at him with puzzled expressions. "You're right, Pansy is beautiful. And she knows people know it. Most guys are just in it for that. Don't be like that. Play hard to get, even. She's a smart girl, though you'd never know it because she doesn't need to be to get attention. But if you make her feel smart, and challenge her, and show her you actually care about _her_, you will win her faster than Hermione can look something up in a book." Draco popped another bean into his mouth. Day-old gum; ick. He spat it out, and then took a sip of his pumpkin juice.

"That's really good advice, Malfoy," said Harry, eyeing him with something that surprisingly looked to Draco like suspicion. He shrugged, keeping his eyes locked on Harry's. "I thought you claimed to be unfit for such things, yet here you give Ron actual, real, useful, honest advice about a friend of yours. What gives?"

He thought about it for a moment. "Pansy is a family friend; I've known her most of my life and though I wouldn't count her among my closest companions, she and I are close. We understand each other. She tells me about the things that happen in her life, including—sometimes to my frustration—every detail about every guy she's ever dated. Even through the War, she managed to find ways to get her heart trampled. And after she disappeared, I still heard from her, still heard about what she was up to. And I hate every single guy who's hurt her. I don't want to have to hate you, Weasley, after all those years of hating you."

Ron smiled. "Thanks, mate. I'll definitely remember that. Only …" He frowned. "I don't know a thing about playing hard to get."

Draco laughed. "Just don't let her know right away that you're interested. And after you _do_ let her know, only let her think you're a little interested. Slowly show your growing interest, and finally, if you fall for her, let her know. But treat her like she deserves. Merlin, I'd love to see her happy finally."

Ron glanced at Harry, then looked back at Draco, an entirely different expression on his face. He was no longer nervous and questioning, but determined. "She asked about you, you know."

Draco arched an eyebrow. "Yeah, you mentioned that."

"She asked if you were seeing anybody."

He snorted. "That's a laugh."

"Is it?" asked Harry, a little too forcefully for casual conversation.

Draco frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"What about Hermione?" Harry said.

Draco's heart dropped into his gut and started convulsing. Rapidly. Painfully almost. He had to blink to keep from blurting something out right away. Then he had to remember to breathe. Breathe, Draco, breathe.

"What about her?" he finally managed, sounding just a little bit too nonchalant for his own ears.

"You tell us," said Ron.

He mastered himself with great internal, invisible effort. "There's nothing to tell."

"You two have been spending an awful lot of time together over the last couple of months."

"Have not," Draco replied quickly.

"Have too."

"Have not."

"Have too," said Ron, joining the battle.

"Not."

"Too," said Ron.

"Yes, you have," said Harry, matter-of-factly. "I mean, we're around Hermione a lot. We _know_, you know. She talks about you all the time, about what you two do."

"Yeah, like you took her to a Quidditch game. Quidditch! Hermione! It's almost laughable, but she talks about it like it was the best thing in the world," supplied Ron.

"And she took you to the airport, and you both spent the entire day flying back and forth between London and Belfast," said Harry.

"And then you took her to see some Muggle shows. What was it Harry? Opla? Ballbet?"

"Opera," corrected Draco absently. "And ballet."

"And what about the time she took you to a football game? A Muggle sport! She said you liked it!"

"Or when you took her to some Muggle ball for your business?"

"That was required. I had to take someone, and she was the most obvious choice," Draco said, getting annoyed but also panicky. Had they really done all those things? How had he missed that? Was he really getting attached to her? He didn't think he wanted to; in fact, he was quite sure the last time he'd thought about it, he refused to think about it. But when was that? He couldn't even remember the last time he refused to think about her. And when did all this start?

_With the paint_, came the voice in his head. Oh yeah. _That_ day. He remembered holding her tightly to him, getting paint all over her. She hadn't looked up at him, but he could feel not just one, but two hearts pounding. Pounding like a bass drum he'd seen when he took her to the symphony.

After that day, things had just – moved. Neither of them talked about it, but they started doing things together. At first, they were little things. She showed him her favorite coffee shop; he took her to his favorite bench in the park downtown. She took him to her favorite ice cream parlor; he took her out to his favorite restaurant. Just because it was nearly 100 galleons per plate didn't mean anything, it was still his favorite restaurant, and he was just reciprocating.

That's how it had started, and that's how it went. The things they shared had escalated into symphonies and airports, but it didn't mean anything _else_ had escalated. There had been nothing to start with, he told himself. He tried to pound it into his brain every time he dropped her off at her place, every time their arms touched during a performance, or when she laughed that laugh when she watched him watch the airplanes take off and land. For hours.

He remembered the way she had patiently sat through that Quidditch game, trying, really trying to see what he saw. She had said she wanted to see it, and she'd tried before, but never saw it. After the game, the look on her face told him she didn't get her wish. Then she had dragged him to a "shopping center" and forced him to look at clothes in shops that were _inside_. He'd found it just plain bizarre, but kept his mouth shut, not wanting to ruin her obvious glee.

He had never once stopped to think about what it might look like to everyone else. He didn't want to think about how it looked, because he knew. When he was least expecting it—in the shower, at his desk, in a meeting—he'd get a shiver that ran all the way through him and he would smile and think of her. He just couldn't think the words in his mind, couldn't form the sentence. If he did, he would be forced to try and do the honorable thing and push her away, to keep her at a respectable distance.

There was nothing else he could do; he knew himself. But he didn't want to do that, he didn't want to push her away. It was amazing to think that someone actually _got_ him. And she did, she really did.

He also had never bothered to think about what it might look like to _her_. Because he knew she was smarter than that. He knew she wouldn't let herself become interested in him. Too smart. She would stop that train before it picked up too much steam. She wouldn't allow herself to think about him beyond what they were, because she would know that she would never let that happen. Ever. Draco was counting on her to keep the line between them bold and unchanging. Merlin knew, he didn't trust himself not to do something stupid.

" – and the time you sent her a box of sugar quills from Honeydukes."

Draco blinked, Harry and Ron's voices breaking through his hazy thoughts. Were they _still_ going on with this?

" – and the time she – "

"Stop it, all right?" Draco interjected. "I get it. I hear you. I understand what you're saying. But listen to _me_ now. There is nothing going on between us. We are friends. I happen to like that we're friends. Okay?"

They exchanged a look that clearly said they weren't buying it. Not for one fraction of a second. "Malfoy, do we look stupid to you?"

He bit his tongue nearly to the point of bleeding to keep himself from answering that question. "Ow," he cried when he'd pressed too hard, and the temptation passed. "I don't really care what you believe. You asked. I'm telling. Do what you wish with the information."

Harry opened his mouth to say something more, but Draco cut him off. "End of discussion, Potter. Now. Let's get to this camping stuff, shall we?"

**ooo**

"Ready?" she asked.

He looked at the ridiculous contraption in front of him and swallowed hard. It was too late to back out now, though; he knew that. There was a strong bar across his legs and another one that came over his shoulders. And they'd left their wands in a locker so they wouldn't get broken. So there was no way out.

He _knew_ that.

But as the sky loomed ever nearer every second, a small part of him remembered that he could still Apparate off this thing. He turned to Hermione to tell her of his revelation, but he saw that she had a ridiculously huge grin on her face and a definite sparkle in her eye. Then he saw her raise her hands over her head and shout with joy. Pure and utter joy.

Draco turned around to face the front. He really shouldn't have. Now all he saw was the sky and before he had time to think, they went over. Hermione was screaming beside him and he felt like he'd left his stomach at the top. The wind rushed past, and they went through loops, and spirals, and twists, and all manner of impossible moves, and in a mere 87 seconds it was over.

"Well?" she asked, pushing the now movable metal bars off her.

He was still catching his breath, unsure if he could trust his legs to support him, and slowly followed her example. Once on solid ground and convinced he could remain upright, he looked at the car they were just in, and the small track the car followed. Amazing, these Muggles.

"It was incredible," he said, grinning ridiculously now too.

"Yeah?" she said, excitedly. "Want to go again?"

"Is Trelawny a crazy bat?"

She hopped a little, gave a small clap, then reached out and grabbed his hand. She proceeded to drag him all the way out of the ride, then back to the long line where they would wait another 30 minutes for an 87 second ride.

"Your people are genius, I think," he said, sitting on the railing.

"_My_ people?"

"Muggles. I mean, I've never seen anything like this thing, this – what did you call it?"

"Roller coaster."

"Yeah, right. Ruddy brilliant."

They rode the coaster a total of eight times, which took the entire afternoon. After the eighth time they both agreed that their stomachs refused to allow a ninth.

They collected their things from the locker and made their way to the exit. It was nice that they hadn't had to pay, since they only spent half a day in the park, and only rode one ride. Hermione always got a kick out of standing at ticket booths and waving her hand and saying, "You don't need our money. Move along." He didn't get it, but she was so adorable every time she giggled to herself after she was handed tickets that he didn't care.

As they walked through the mass of people, Hermione suddenly stopped and he almost ran in to her. "Ooh, stay here," she said.

Draco nodded and pointed to a bench nearby. Hermione grinned and then took off through the throng of people and he lost sight of her. He found a bench near that spot to sit and wait, and noticed that more than one girl looked him over with satisfaction. He merely smirked in return, silently wishing they would stay away, and they did, mostly, but one girl came over and sat right next to him.

She started flirting with him. Draco didn't say much at first, hoping the girl would get the hint and leave. She didn't; she even touched his arm—the flawed arm—and Draco winced. He had once been quite adept at the art of flirting and had to consciously avoid returning in kind. He had no desire to flirt with a girl he didn't even know—a girl who wasn't Hermione (even though he never flirted with her)—but it was like second nature, an almost automatic response. It was a lot like learning to ride a broom – you never really forget how. There was an entire gene in the Malfoy strand that was dedicated to wooing the opposite sex.

Then Hermione returned in a blur and sat on his lap, offering him a lick of her ice cream and smiling at him in a way she never had before. Like he was both in trouble and highly delicious at the same time. His blood went cold at that smile. The other girl glared at Hermione and left to rejoin her friends.

Without a word, Hermione moved to sit beside him on the bench and produced, as if by magic, a dish of ice cream for him. Chocolate chunk; his favorite. With chocolate syrup and sprinkles. Obscene amount of time indeed; she knew his most intimate ice cream preferences.

But she glared at him, and took a bite of her own ice cream.

"Butterscotch?" he asked, taking a spoonful of his.

She frowned and nodded, and licked her spoon clean. He knew she was upset, and refused to let himself think about the myriad possible reasons. She was _smart_, remember? She knew better than to … well, she just did. He didn't need to think about it. She'd think about it enough for four of them. They ate their ice cream in a silence so full of nothing it seemed deafening.

Then they sat there. Draco knew she wanted to say something, and so did not force her into action. He figured she was deciding between biting his head off, sulking, or just leaving him there. He half hoped she'd just leave, so he could avoid her yelling at him. He was never good in actual fighting, especially with people he cared about. He usually found his tongue oddly tied.

"I don't think we should go to that concert tomorrow," Hermione finally said. "I have so much to do for work, and it's really been piling up because I've been neglecting it, and I would really use the time to get caught up."

He really wished she'd just left him sitting there. Probably torture would have been preferable. Even the Cruciatus. Probably.

He shrugged as if he didn't care. Because he didn't. Intellectually. "Okay," he said casually. She had done it, put the rapidly growing space between them. His first reaction was to widen the gulf, run into the corner and lick his wounds and snap at approaching fingers. And then to nail it down he said, "I'm sure I can find someone to go with. Maybe Pansy."

She offered no visible reaction, which annoyed him to no end. It was supposed to be her turn to poke and needle.

He was surprised at how quickly his anger had materialized. One moment they were walking through the park, their arms brushing when one of them was jostled by the pressing crowd sending heat shooting through his arm. The next, she was breaking off something they were supposed to do together. She had never done that in all the months they'd been…whatever they were. So it told him something. She was upset—_very _upset. It couldn't have been only because she'd seen him flirting. It _couldn't_.

Then she looked at him, peered searchingly into his eyes, and he was nearly undone. Nearly, but she looked away just in time.

"She'd like it," Hermione said, taking a careful bite of ice cream. "But I doubt Ron will let her out of his sight on a Friday night."

Draco smirked, because he knew better. Ron wouldn't want to let her go, but he would. Ron was falling for Pansy, but he'd taken Draco's advice and hadn't let on about it. Ron wouldn't be overly possessive; therefore Draco would be free to go with Pansy. If he wanted to, which he still hadn't decided. Maybe a date with a gallon of Ogden's Finest was more in order.

At least Pansy's letters were much happier now, though she only occasionally mentioned Ron. That pleased Draco. It meant Pansy was falling too, and Ron really was treating her right.

"He will," he said. "It's me, after all."

She muttered something that sounded like "insufferable git," but maybe he misheard her.

"Sorry?" he said innocently. "I missed that." There must have been a special switch when it came to her. He was sniping at her like he hadn't done in years.

"Well, have fun," she said, trying hard not to show her annoyance.

"I will. I mean, I'm going for the music, after all." Twist. He knew she would make the connection that would imply he hadn't asked her to go because he wanted _her _to go. Just someone. And he really couldn't answer why he wanted to hurt her just then. Except, maybe it was because she'd hurt him … she'd hurt him, he hurt her … it all evened out.

Her jaw tightened, but she didn't respond.

"Well, it's nearly dinner. And I have guests coming." He stood, anxious to get away from Hermione and that look she kept sending him, like he was less than scum. And honestly, what had he done to deserve that? If she wasn't going to tell him, which obviously she wasn't, he saw no reason to be pleasant. She knew that he knew that she was upset. So it was all on her right now, because she also knew he wouldn't ask about it.

She stood too and huffed. "Of course. Wouldn't want you to be late to your precious dinner." They walked in that odd silence to an empty, out-of-the-way spot, and then with only a look exchanged, Disapparated.

**ooo **

Draco woke the next morning with that feeling in the pit of his gut. He was growing increasingly familiar with the feeling the compelled him to jump. He didn't fight it.

It was a grey morning at the cliff, and he knew it would probably storm. He loved watching a storm blow in from the sea, a wild, tempestuous, yet orderly natural phenomenon.

A cool wind blew, and he heard his mother's words.

"…change your world…love a witch…I won't see you marry…I love you, son…"

He missed their few moments together and wished she were there to talk to him now, to help him through this mess. Than again, this mess was largely her fault. Narcissa had put _her _into his mind, and his thoughts. And then _she _had wiggled her way into his life and his heart. Then turned and stomped on it as if it were a bug.

He shivered as a sharp wind blew through his hair. Better go now, before it rains.

So he did.

He waited three seconds before setting his broom under him. He'd set his wand again and it took over half a second to stop falling. Crucial. His calculations had suggested it would take nearly one full second to completely stop if he waited six seconds to right himself, which would result in his untimely death. Five and a half seconds was the maximum time he could wait before getting on his broom.

And none of this accounted for him calling his broom to him. That would take time too. And more figuring. He'd get to that once he'd fallen for the full five and a half seconds. One thing at a time. He didn't feel the burst of life he usually felt when he jumped and he decided it was because of Hermione. Because he wouldn't be seeing her today. And, if his theory held true of their up and down relationship, he wouldn't see her for awhile.

**ooo **

"Hey, kid."

"Draco!" Pansy stood from her chair and flung her arms around him tightly.

He hugged her back, and then pulled away, pushing her chair in for her when she sat. He took the place opposite her.

"Hi, Pansy."

They met in Diagon Alley at an upscale café for lunch. Pansy had recently 'been moved to give England another try,' and had taken a room with the Potters until she found somewhere suitable to live. It was the first chance he'd had to see her.

She gave him a giant smile. "I've missed you."

He smirked. "Can't get enough of me. I knew my incredible wit and these stunning good looks were really a curse."

"Oh, stop it. You're terrible. And quite full of yourself." She gave him a heartfelt smile. "It's good to see that some things don't change."

"How are you?"

"I'm wonderful," she said happily. "I simply must tell you. I'm crazy for someone."

He rolled his eyes. "Already? I haven't even opened the menu. Can't this wait until we've got our food?"

She dismissed his comments with a flourish of her hand. "Of course not. This could take a while."

"Naturally," he said with a grin.

The waiter came then and took their orders.

"So, who is he? Who am I going to have to beat to a pulp now?"

"Draco! Be nice! With any luck you won't have to feel violent thoughts toward this one."

"Okay, you're right. Go on, please."

She looked at him nervously, fidgeting with her napkin. "Ron Weasley."

He arched an eyebrow. "Weasley? Really? I mean, I knew you two saw each other here and there, but you really _like_ him?"

"Oh, Draco, I do!" she said. And it was just the way she said it, but it reminded him of Pansy as a little girl, when she'd gotten her first 'grown-up' party dress. She was ten, and innocent, and her eyes full of wonder at the world. The years full of blood and death and hate had taken it away from her, but he saw it again, then.

"He's unlike anyone else I've ever known," she continued. "He's sweet, and kind, and everything I've never had."

Draco took a sip of water and looked at her pointedly. "And does he feel the same?"

She squirmed in her seat. "I don't actually know."

He smiled. "Pansy, my dear, this will be a good thing for you."

She smiled like a million Galleons and then proceeded to talk about Ron for the entiremeal. Draco listened, laughed, and smiled as he was supposed to, but very little of her news was actually new. He'd heard a lot of it from Ron, but enjoyed hearing her side too. She provided infinitely more details—a drawback offset by her glowing smile. It was nice to know she was enjoying being with Ron just as much as Ron was enjoying being with her.

When the waiter cleared their plates, Draco thought he was free, that Pansy had somehow, miraculously, forgotten to ask anything about him. Then she wanted dessert. He should have known.

Halfway through, she looked about to burst.

"What is it?" Draco asked with a resigned sigh.

"How are you?"

"I'm good, Pansy."

"What are you up to these days?"

"Oh, business as usual."

Her eyes sparkled as she reached the crux of her inquiries. "Any significant witches in your life?"

"Just you, love," he said so quickly it sounded rehearsed. As if he'd been anticipating her question.

She giggled, but her gaze remained firmly set on him. "How was your concert two weeks ago?" she asked, casually taking a bite of her cake.

Bugger. She knew something. And she was fishing.

"Didn't go," he said indifferently.

"What? Why not I thought you loved that group."

He shrugged. "Lost interest."

She took another bite and peered at him over her empty fork. "I saw Hermione yesterday."

He blinked.

Bugger. She knew his blinks, and she only raised one eyebrow. She either knew something, or wanted something, or both.

"And?" he said.

"She asked about some concert," Pansy said, taking a bite of her Crème Brule. "Only she was shocked to learn I knew nothing about it. Do tell, Draco. What happened?"

He knew she wouldn't rest until she got an answer she deemed satisfactory, and he also knew just how long her patience could last. He exhaled sharply. "She got mad at me for some reason and said she didn't want to go with me after all. I told her I'd ask you, but then I didn't want to go anymore."

"What did you do?" she asked in an accusing tone, frowning severely.

"Me?" he said incredulously. "I ... have an idea, but it's just that, and it's absurd."

She studied him for a moment, then resumed eating. "You could try and find it out."

"Why bother? You know I'm not going to apologize, or try and fix things."

"Why not?"

"Because I know I didn't doanything. Not worthy of the silent treatment she's been giving me for over two weeks. I am capable of knowing when I've done something wrong, and I didn't do anything wrong here. So I won't need to apologize once I learn why she got all bent out of shape. _She _should apologize for getting angry."

She gave him a look that clearly said that she didn't believe him for half a second, but she didn't say anything right away. When she spoke it was very casual, yet probing. "What's going on with you two?"

He freaking blinked again. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing."

"Is that the problem, then?"

He looked at her, deflated. "No, Pansy."

"Do you like her?"

Ah, the sixty-four thousand Galleon question. He _liked _her so much he couldn't stand her. Or himself. He could spend every single day ranting about why he didn't like her, but at the end of the day, her smile would melt him. Burn him. Inside out. And since today didn't work, he would just have to try and convince himself tomorrow. Lather; rinse; repeat.

Only he didn't _want _to like her. And despite all the changes in his life, despite turning to the light side, he was still and always would be a _Malfoy._ He couldn't get new blood. Or a new life. Or a different childhood. All he got was a second chance at the hand he'd been dealt. But he was still him And his mother had twisted his mind with her knowing eyes and seemingly harmless words. Or maybe, he'd twisted his own mind over her words.

He could pretend that the three months he'd spent with Hermione, seeing her nearly every single day, hadn't affected him. That knowing her, and knowing she really got him, didn't matter. Of course, he had been affected, and it did matter. More than anything. But he'd be declared a holy saint before he went willingly. No, it would be screaming, and ranting, and kicking, biting, pinching, and twistingthat would finally win him to her. After that, he'd be all hers. If she wanted him, of course.

She was making it easy on him now, avoiding him and openly hating him. He didn't have to kick and scream, and push her away; she wasn't pulling. He didn't want her anyway.

Except that he did.

So much so that now it was painful. When she had cancelled on him, he'd known it was the start of something new; he just hadn't known it was the end of whatever they had.

Draco's mind was in a state of constant warfare. One side wanted him to give up the fight and admit his feelings; the other side completely refused to even think about it. That side understood that he wasn't cut out for a relationship—not at this point in his life, anyway. That side also understood that Hermione deserved absolutely the best he could offer—the best anyone could possibly hope to give—and he couldn't give that to her. He wasn't even sure what his best was.

In the latest battle, she had cast the final blow, inflicting a grievous wound and causing the opposing sides of his mind to temporarily band together. And the ultimate loser, the lightning part of his heart, was waiting to be healed, begging for him to make things right with her. He wasn't helping it; he wasn't anxious for the healing.

The pain meant that he could feel, something he'd wondered about since he was sixteen, and it was good to know he could, even if he only felt pain. Because the pain was from the loss of the warmth she put into his life.

"No," he said solidly, firmly, meeting her gaze and holding it. He didn't like her because he chose not to. When she was light-years away, after essentially rejecting him, he could easily choose not to like her.

"Really?" Pansy asked, obviously surprised.

"Really."

"She's the only girl who'll have you, you know."

He scowled. "Thanks, Pansy. Really nice," he said sarcastically.

"I mean it, Draco. No one else would put up with your – oddities – like she would. No one else will call you out when you're spouting rubbish. No one else will make you as angry but also as happy as she will." Almost on the breeze, he heard what she didn't say. _She'll change your world._

He suddenly felt heavy. Like his mother was speaking through Pansy, only he didn't want to listen, couldn't listen.

"Pansy," he started.

"Draco, I think it's time you fell hopelessly and madly in love with someone. Just imagine the odd extremes you'd go to, the things you would do for her. Almost makes me wish it were me." She smiled at his shocked expression. "Almost. Something tells me Ron will treat me better than you ever could. He feels with every part of him. So nauseatingly Gryffindor of him, but alarmingly wonderful at the same time. You should try it, Draco. Really."

"Uh-huh." He sighed. "I can't, Pansy. I can't – do that. Fall in love. Any of that."

"Why not? Why not take the plunge? Fall in love with someone, Draco! It doesn't even have to be Hermione. Just someone. You've been alone for so long"

"I'm not ready."

"Sure you are!"

"I … I know I won't—can't—fall in love with anyone except Hermione."

Pansy gasped and her eyes went wide.

He grimaced and gave Pansy a defeated look. "And I'm not ready to fall hopelessly, madly in love with the only girl who'll have me."

**ooo**

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. This is all for fun. 

**A/N**: Thank you so much for your patience and for reading! Oodles of thanks to my betas, Z, and eilonwy. Endless thanks and appreciation for helping to make this story so much better!

I'm really excited to be posting again, **finally**, after a very busy couple of months! I hope this chapter was worth the wait.


	6. Chapter 5

**Gravity**

**Chapter 5**

Draco sighed and looked into the mirror. He looked tired; he _felt_ tired. He was amazed at how worn out he could be from doing so much nothing. He still worked, still socialized when required for his company, still organized his books … Not much had changed over the last couple of months. They'd simply passed, barely noticed or celebrated, save the changing of autumn to winter.

It was cold outside. The heart of winter swirled around his house, piling higher and higher in white clumps. It was a magical time, to be sure, even for those who had no wands. The sight of those tiny flakes falling slowly was enough to put smiles on the faces of children and adults alike. It warmed even his heart, if only a little. His heart was especially frozen this winter, a chunk of ice so cold that he felt constantly chilly, even when sitting in front of a roaring fire.

He took a handful of gel and ran his hand once through his hair, letting it fall naturally. It ended up looking messy, but purposefully messy, perfect. Then he examined what he was wearing, making sure no wrinkles had appeared since he'd checked ten minutes ago. He wore sharp black pants and a long-sleeved, white button-down shirt, cuffs upturned, under a black, v-neck sweater. Black shoes and belt completed the look. He rarely cared how he looked—he wasn't out to impress anyone—but he'd been raised to always look his best and it was one of his few life-long habits that he hadn't needed to break.

Draco was not anxious for his evening to begin. He would be seeing Hermione for the first time since the 'incident' at the amusement park. What had started as a strange spat had turned into an even more bizarre standoff, through no specific action by either of them. Draco thought the lack of action was at the core of the problem.

He saw no reason to attempt to speak with her until she came to her senses and apologized. After all, he had not done anything wrong; she had been the one who had gotten upset and cancelled their plans.

Hermione, for her part, seemed to be suffering under the delusion that he _had _been in the wrong, and that he needed to apologize. Ron had hinted at the idea in a very round-about way a few weeks earlier, the first and last time he or Harry had brought up the rift between their two friends. Draco had assured them that he had no intention of apologizing and if that was what Hermione was waiting for, then they might as well get used to the idea of very uncomfortable social gatherings where he and Hermione were involved. Draco had no intention of giving up his friendships with Harry and Ron just because she was mad at him.

They had managed to completely steer clear of each other in the months since, but tonight there would be no way to avoid _her._ Draco was nervous about seeing her again. He had managed to push her to the periphery of his thoughts over the last few weeks and he truly was not sure how he would feel upon seeing her now. Part of him hoped he would be over her, though he didn't have much expectation of it happening. Perhaps she would have come to her senses, would finally apologize, and they would have a pleasant evening. Also very unlikely.

Draco decided he would be civil if they were required to interact. He left the bathroom and went downstairs. Before he had time to procrastinate further, he grabbed his best bottle of wine from the kitchen and Disapparated.

The address for the party had been for somewhere in Wiltshire, where he'd grown up, so Draco wasn't at all surprised to find himself standing outside a palatial estate home. As he surveyed the front lawn and façade, he smiled. It was exactly the kind of place he would expect to find his friend.

With only the slightest hesitation and a fleeting thought that he could still leave, Draco knocked on the front door.

After a few moments, the door opened, revealing a very excited Pansy Parkinson.

"Draco!" she squealed, flinging her arms around him. When she let go of him, she was still beaming. "Oh, I'm so glad you came!"

"Didn't I say I would?" he asked with a smile. "But Pansy … opening your own doors? What's got into you?"

"I knew it would be you, silly," she said, taking his arm in hers and closing the door behind him. "Besides, no house elves. It's almost a requirement with Ron—not that I mind, I assure you. Something to do with Hermione, I think …" She trailed off, then looked horrified. "Oh, Draco! I'm sorry! I forgot I'm not supposed to talk about her!"

"Why? I never said that," Draco replied, confused.

"No, you didn't, but you get this look on your face whenever you hear her name, and every time I tell myself I'm not going to mention her."

He didn't like to hear that his reaction was so visible to anyone paying attention. "Forget it, okay?"

Pansy bit her lip and nodded.

Draco continued. "She had a 'Save the House Elves from Unjust Enslavement and Overwork and Underpay' campaign in school. Don't you remember?"

"Er … vaguely," Pansy said.

Draco knew she was lying; he hadn't even thought about S.P.E.W., despite ridiculing and mocking it back in school, until Hermione had brought it up one night.

"Anyway, I'm glad you came." Pansy led him through the foyer and toward the main dining hall. "I was worried you had changed your mind, but when I heard that someone was at the door, I checked the clock. Forty-seven minutes late, as usual."

Draco chuckled. "You know me too well."

Pansy scoffed. "Everyone knows. No one expects you on time, I hope you realize. You should show up somewhere early—people might die of shock."

He snorted. "Ha, ha. Deliriously funny as usual, Pansy. Here, this is for you," he said, handing her the bottle he'd brought.

She examined it. "Merlin, Draco! This is really good stuff!"

"Only the best for you."

She stopped in the middle of the main hall. "Well, what do you think? Of the house, I mean. It's nothing like what you're used to, but I like it. A lot."

Draco chuckled. "You should come by sometime. Where I live now, anyway. You'll think you've stepped into a different dimension."

"Oh?" She regarded him curiously. "Ron did mention something about the place … It's smaller than the Manor, right?"

"I believe Ginny called it a cottage."

"A _cottage_? Since when does Draco Malfoy live in a cottage?"

He shrugged. "Since he doesn't care about appearances or putting on airs anymore and has learned that obsession over things can only be a burden, leading to overwork and neglect of family and ultimately unhappiness." He glanced at Pansy and smirked at her incredulous look. "Too much?" he asked.

She huffed. "Only a little. Anyway, you're avoiding the question. Even though you may not live in your Manor, you didgrow up there and have exquisite taste." She indicated the wine, then his shirt and shoes.

Draco sighed and looked around, recognizing immediately the high quality of everything around him. The paintings, the carpets, the ornaments—all of it screamed lavish and priceless. Add to that the festive holiday décor, and it was the very picture of high society England in winter.

"It's exquisite, Pansy. You've done an excellent job."

She preened. "Thank you."

"For the record, I should mention that dressing oneself well does not necessarily carry over into dressing one's home accordingly."

She rolled her eyes.

They continued their walk and Draco felt increasingly uneasy with each step. The house was too much like the one he'd grown up in. It had the same oppressive, autocratic feel to it, the kind that had once made him feel as if the vase in the second floor library was worth more than he was. He'd left for a reason. He didn't need it; didn't want it. Not only did all the trappings of wealth remind him of his childhood and all that went with it, but it was a glaring reminder of what stratification in a society can lead to: hate, destruction, and death.

He had learned in the war that he needed very little in his life, and he liked it that way. He was content.

Pansy had relocated to England a few months after she had started dating Ron. She claimed she wanted to be closer to family and familiar things—Draco included—but he knew better. She was secretly wishing and hoping things between her and Ron would progress to that ultimate end—rings and shared names. The idea left a hollow pit in Draco's stomach, and he was sure most of it was because the girl he had grown up with had finally found someone incredibly special. Perhaps the other part was because he'd found someone that special too, only it was impossible. Hermione was… someone he hoped he'd know for the rest of his life, but he would never call her anything more than friend.

An involuntary shiver ran through him because he wasn't sure she would even consider him a friend anymore. He hadn't seen Hermione at all since the park. It grew both easier and harder to deal with as time passed. But there was this constant nagging in his mind that screamed, _this isn't fair! _ He'd never had someone that really understood him before, and she had pulled herself away from him. It had felt like pulling a serrated knife out of a stab wound. It left him bleeding. Profusely. As though she'd severed a major artery.

He could have gone to her, tried to mend the rift, but she was the one who needed to make amends. He had a vast amount of patience when it came to preserving his sense of pride and believed he could easily outlast her.

Just outside the drawing room, Pansy leaned over to whisper in his ear. "It's a rental," she said, eyes bright with excitement.

He looked at her and slowly smiled. "Oh? Are you expecting to take up permanent residence elsewhere?"

"You never know," she said evasively.

The drawing room was also decorated fantastically for the festivities. Fairy lights, brightly colored balls, and flowers were on every surface, strung everywhere, but tastefully. Red, green, gold and silver adornments were everywhere, and live trees decorated top to bottom with sparkling ornaments in every room.

"Hors d'Oeuvres and drinks in here. Then dinner in fifteen minutes in the ballroom. Okay?"

"And after that?"

"Dancing, of course," she said.

Draco suppressed a groan.

She gave him a pointed look. "And you _must_ stay until midnight. It's Christmas Eve, after all, and you needn't be alone for Christmas. You can stay the night here, if you want, or come to the Burrow. I'm going; surely you've been invited …"

"Yes," he mumbled, suddenly finding that the pattern on the tapestry hanging beside the door fascinating.

"Well, think about it." She led him into the room and left to play the role of hostess. He went to the bar and ordered the first of what he predicted would be many drinks. Then he saw Ron talking with some people he didn't know and went to join him.

"Draco!" called Ron when he approached.

They shook hands, and Ron proceeded to introduce him to two Quidditch teammates. Just as the conversation was turning away from their victory the night before, the crowd hushed as if a flashing sign had demanded, "Silence!"

All heads turned toward the door and in walked—who elsecould hush a crowd like that—Harry and Ginny Potter. Draco thought Ginny looked especially lovely in a lavender dress, a bit flushed, and appearing very much in love with the wizard on her arm.

Harry gave a reluctant wave and Ginny leaned over to whisper to him. He searched the room and his eyes met Draco's. Then Harry nodded and Ginny left his side. Harry walked toward him and Ron, but Draco's eyes were on Ginny. He watched as she made her way through the room until she found one of the twins, standing next to a girl in a dark blue dress. His heart recognized her before his brain and started beating louder, so he squinted and tilted his head slightly; he swallowed hard.

The girl was beautiful … and she was Hermione. Draco hadn't been prepared for that. He knew all along that Hermione was attractive in her own way. When the wind blew her large curls around her face, or when the sunlight hit her eyes, lighting up the flecks of gold in them. Or when she smiled at him when she figured out one of his patterns. Or laughed at something he said. Or, just laughed. Here she was now, simply breathtaking.

Draco watched as Ginny spoke to her brother and her friend. Hermione squealed and threw her arms around Ginny, and the twin smiled at his sister, and then looked in Draco'sdirection. The twin started walking toward where he, Harry and Ron were standing; Hermione stayed with Ginny.

"Harry, mate," said Fred—Draco recognized him now—shaking his hand firmly. "Congratulations!"

Draco looked at Ron, who shrugged, then at Harry, who was happy, very, very happy.

Fred continued. "The first little Potter. That's something, isn't it?"

Draco's eyes widened and he opened his mouth to join the others in congratulating his friend when Ginny and Hermione walked up, distracting him. Draco stared at her, but everyone was so caught up in Harry and Ginny's news that no one took notice of him. After a few moments, during which he caught snippets of conversation ("just two months along…July, we think…yes, Harry was born in July…"), she turned to look at him and smiled. He felt his heart rate quicken and tried to say something, but before he could force words out, she'd turned back to Ginny.

Then Draco felt out of place. Ridiculouslyout of place. He scanned the room for Pansy and went to her.

"Ginny's pregnant," he told her. It was the wrong thing to say if he'd been hoping for company. Pansy squealed and ran over to the group. Well, so much for someone to talk to. He went to the bar and ordered his second drink.

"Firewhiskey, please," came a soft voice beside him. He looked down and his eyes fell on a cute witch with very dark brown hair, done up in curls on her head. She wore a slightly revealing red dress, and she gave him a sly smile.

Draco took his drink and nodded to her.

"Kara Wheatley," said the girl, extending her hand.

"Draco Malfoy," he said, shaking it.

"I know. Probably everyone knows who you are."

His features darkened and he scowled.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to offend. It's just true, is all. You're famous."

He cringed inwardly; he knew it would be a long time before his name and misdeeds faded from people's minds. "It's nice to meet you, Kara," he said, cordiality winning out over a biting remark.

"Likewise."

Draco studied the woman in front of him while they exchanged small talk. She was a few inches taller than Hermione, and thinner. She had an exotic allure that was entirely different from Hermione's innocent beauty. Kara's eyes were almost black, and he saw mystery and danger in them; Hermione's eyes were soft, warm, and caring.

Draco almost dropped his glass when he realized he'd just compared everything about her with Hermione—and then concluded that Hermione was superior in every way. There was a part of him that was able to declare Kara the more beautiful witch, and by far. But the other part, the part that filtered everything through how he feltabout Hermione, saw things differently. And she then won by a landslide.

"Oh, good, Draco. I found you." Pansy's arm snaked into his. "Excuse us, Kara," she said, practically dragging Draco away.

"Pansy, what's the matter?" he said, once they finally came to a halt in the hallway. She pushed him into a large closet and shut the door securely behind her. "Uh, Pansy? Remember Ron? You really like him, and I'm a bit past shagging in coat closets."

"Oh, shut up. I'm not here to try and seduce you. Besides, I know where your heart rests." He glared at her. Pansy's face softened. "I'm so, so sorry, Draco. I honestly had no idea. I would've warned you, you must believe me."

"What are you on about, Pansy?"

Pansy gave him a pitying expression. "It's Hermione. She's with Fred Weasley."

Draco's entire body reacted. His head went thick and it was hard to think. There was a rushing sound in his ears, and he was starting to see spots. His stomach was about to return his lunch, and his heart was screaming at him for daring to care.

"Fred? _Weasley?_" he managed to croak.

Pansy nodded sympathetically. "I'm sorry. But I didn't want you to find out from anyone else."

He nodded, dazed.

"Want me to stay?" she asked.

"No, go on. Dinner is soon. It's your party."

"Want me to help you with this? Maybe, Kara?"

He must have nodded then too, because she smirked and left him alone.

So. Thisis how_that _feels. Well, if that didn't bugger all? Of course, he knew the feeling of the world around him crashing into dust around him, and that was how this felt. What did he feel for the girl if she could make him feel like this like all the birds stopped singing, the flowers died, the wind died, and the sun was suddenly two inches closer to the earth? He was burning alive. And freezing. And it was awful. How could he have let things get thisout of hand? He hadn't known the full strength of his feelings for Hermione until now.

Their intensity had him reeling. When did this even happen He hadn't really talked to her in months. Not since the park. Sure, he had thought about her a lot, and could even imagine what she'd say in certain situations. Could almost hearher saying it. Truth was—and he was forced to admit it now—he missed her. Missed their crazy outings, her righteous indignation, her easy laugh, her captivating smile, their heated debates. Essentially, he missed everything about her. He missed _her. _

He groaned and sank further into the closet. Time passed though he wasn't aware of it. He berated himself repeatedly for falling for Hermione and tried to belittle his feelings, hoping he could shame them away. It didn't work; in the end he could only think about their time together and wanted to beat his head against the wall until all the feelings went away.

Hermione … and _Fred_. He quickly secured in his mind the last day he had been with Hermione. October then tenth. She had never mentioned Fred, not even in passing. Although neither of them ever discussed anything remotely approaching the subject of dating, surely she wouldn't have devoted all of her free time to Draco if there had already been a Hermione and Fred. Or even the hint of a Hermione and anyone. In a little over two month's time, she had started seeing someone. Which could only mean … exactly what Draco had always known: Hermione was smart. There would never be a 'them.' And he was completely buggered for it.

Pansy came looking for him.

"Draco? You still here?" she whisper-hissed.

"Yes," he muttered.

"Come out. Dinner's been served and you're missing it. Besides it's not very Malfoy of you to hide in a closet."

"Okay, coming." He dragged himself out of the small room, straightened his robes, plastered a look of indifference on his face and followed Pansy. At least he'd had a lot of experience with pretending he didn't care.

"Oh, and you're sitting with Kara. And I told her to act like you two had been on a couple of dates. You know, for your ego."

He rolled his eyes. "Wonderful, Pansy."

They entered a long dining hall and Pansy led him to his seat. He paled when he saw he was also at a table with Hermione and Fred. He turned to Pansy, but the hard glare in her eyes kept his mouth shut.

His seat was directly opposite Fred's. Bloody brilliant.

Kara was indeed next to his empty seat, and completing the eight-person table were Harry and Ginny, plus Neville and Luna. He was stunned to see the latter two there, and together. Ron must have invited them.

"Sorry he's late, Kara, I needed him to help me with something," said Pansy. Draco inwardly cringed.

Kara smiled at him, her eyes full of desire. "Oh, it's okay, Pansy. I'll punish him later," she said with a wink for him.

He saw Hermione's jaw drop, and felt infinitesimally better. He was still torn though. Pansy had recruited Kara to play his date, and she was quite the little vixen. And what she'd said reminded him of so many girls he'd met, who all wanted just one thing. But he didn't want that anymore. He wanted what Harry and Ginny had.

However, after all Hermione had put him through—ditching him with the concert, completely ignoring him for months, and then…_Fred_—maybe he didn't care what she thought. Had she got it into her head that he was something he wasn't: that he was just like Harry and Ron? That he was a nice, friendly, do-gooder? That he didn't still have all those characteristics which had landed him in Slytherin? If so, she was sorely mistaken. He'd exercise those muscles now and enjoy her stunned reaction. It would serve her right. So he smirked, and put his arm around Kara.

"Like last time?" he said.

"If you're very bad," she said, putting a hand on his arm and pulling him toward her. Then she whispered, "Or very good," so loudly that it wasn't at all a whisper.

Draco grinned and reached for his glass of water. Fred, Harry, Ginny and Neville were all gaping at him. Hermione was adjusting and readjusting the napkin on her lap and Luna was staring into space. As usual.

Draco smirked at Kara once more, then adjusted in his seat to assume a perfect posture. He picked up the menu and said lightly, "I'll have the fish."

**ooo**

The meal was excruciating. Kara played her role as his date far more enthusiastically than he'd anticipated. It was as though she weren't playing at all. And Draco … he was stunned by her boldness, but he couldn't let it show. After all, he was supposed to have dated this woman. He flirted with her, matched her, word for word, look for look, touch for touch. This was one of Draco's skills, after all. Little used, yes; despised, true; but a finely-honed skill nonetheless.

Draco was relieved when the conclusion of dinner was announced. He'd sworn never to use these skills to wound again, and when he saw the look on Hermione's face halfway through dinner, he'd felt sick at his stomach. And he was pretty sure he'd lost all of Harry's respect.

He was anxious to get away from Kara. As dinner progressed, he became further convinced that she was just like many of the guests his father had entertained—spoiled, selfish, arrogant, and likely interested in one…or two… things: his money and/or the rumors about his proficiency in the bedroom. Not exactly for the long walks on the beach and slow-dancing kind of thing.

It grated on his nerves so much so that when he finally was able to leave the table, he stood noisily, scraping his chair across the floor and storming away, wondering how he'd ever found her attractive in the first place. He felt low—lower than low. Like he could never scrub himself clean. And he certainly never wanted to set eyes on her again.

When the guests were led to the ballroom, Draco stayed against the walls, near the bar. Halfway through the second dance, someone interrupted his third Firewhiskey.

"Oi! Draco!" It was Ron. Ron, who had obviously _not _spoken to Harry, Ginny, or Hermione, evidenced by the fact that he was smiling as he approached. "Have you danced yet?"

"Uh, no."

"Why not?" Ron ordered himself a butterbeer and stood beside Draco, sipping and watching the crowd.

"As a general rule, I don't dance," he replied bitterly, watching Fred and Hermione moving smoothly across the dance floor. Fred Weasley. Draco had thought about him all through dinner. He was smart, highly successful, and rich—all of which Draco was too. However, Fred was also a Weasley, and therefore generally good-natured, friendly, and he smiled. A lot. Things that could notbe said about Draco. And, knowing he owned a joke shop meant that he could probably make her laugh. Draco ground his teeth at the thought. _He _was supposed to be the one who made her laugh. Jealousy bubbled unchecked inside him.

"Nonsense, Malfoy. You danced fourth year."

"Once. Because Pansy threatened to stab me with her stiletto."

"Still. You should. It would make Pansy happy; she thinks you're over her, sulking in the corner."

"I am," he muttered under his breath.

"What?" Ron asked.

"Have you talked to Harry lately?" Draco asked, skeptical.

"Yeah. Said you were a giant prat at dinner. Not that it's surprising to see those old, half-forgotten traits resurface."

He glared at Ron. "Sod off."

Ron laughed. "Come on, Draco. We don't like you because you're a giant cuddly teddy bear. Now that I think about it … don't ask me to try and say why we like you, all right?"

"I'm always good for a sarcastic quip or to pick up the tab when we go out."

"That must be the reason," said Ron. "So … what exactly happened at dinner?

"I … was an idiot."

"Must've done something unusual; Harry never gets annoyed when you're an idiot …" Ron's eyes went wide. "Wait! Did you sit at Hermione's table?"

"Yes," Draco answered warily. It would appear that Harry had not told Ron the specifics of the dinner atmosphere, but he didn't want Ron poking around at the topic of Hermione.

"Was it Fred? Did he provoke you? He's crazy jealous of you, you know. Hates it when Hermione mentions you."

"She talks about me?" he asked, stunned. Though, really, it was almost worse to hear that she talked about him when she wouldn't talk _to_ him.

"Yeah, sometimes. Although … Harry would've said if Fred had been involved, what with the history between you and Hermione's."

"We don't have history," Draco ground out.

Ron rolled his eyes. "That's right. How could I forget? You two just spent four or five months constantly in each other's presence. Did you get jealous at seeing Hermione with Fred? That must have been it!" Ron looked as though he had figured out the cure for world hunger. "You were jealous, and said something to or about Fred that Harry didn't like!"

"I barely said two words to your brother. And I was _not_ jealous." He put all the venom, all the lethal bite he could into his response and gave Ron a fierce glare. Surely that would at least stop the questions about Hermione.

It worked; Ron backed a few feet from Draco and winced as though Draco had taken a swing at him. "Right. Course you weren't." Ron didn't buy Draco's lie, but that didn't matter. "Then … what?"

Draco scowled. "Let's just say … I did something I swore I'd never do again."

Ron patted him on the back. "Hey, mate. We all mess up. Just do better next time."

"I don't want there to b be /b a next time." He didn't want to spend his evenings in pointless flirtation, he didn't want a string of one-night stands, or meaningless shags … He had been through those motions too much already. He wanted … I Bugger. /I He needed another drink.

Ron was spared the duty of finding something useful and meaningful to say to Draco's unusual admission of fault by Pansy, who pulled him onto the dance floor. She also tried half-heartedly to convince Draco to dance.

Naturally, he declined, and resumed drinking and glaring at Fred Weasley.

Three songs later, Kara approached him. It must have been all the spirits he had imbibed that prevented him from noticing her until it was too late. "Draco, dance with me," she said, as though it was more of a command than a question.

He looked at her incredulously. Hadn't she noticed his growing repulsion during dinner, and how he'd practically _run _away from her? Obviously not.

"Come on," she laughed. "I'm not that bad once you get to know me." Her eyes twinkled darkly, and Draco decided she probably _was_ that bad.

"No, thanks."

"Draco Malfoy." The ethereal Luna Lovegood had appeared next to Kara.

He'd never in his life been relieved to see Luna, until now. "Yes?"

"I have noticed that you have not yet been on the dance floor," she said airily.

"Excellent observation, Luna. You're right." Draco looked at her intently, as though they were having the most interesting conversation.

"I'm trying to convince him to change that," said Kara, glancing uncertainly at Luna. Draco enjoyed the thought that perhaps Kara was beginning to doubt her hold on him; Luna could be very pretty when she tried, as she had tonight.

Luna turned to look at her and cocked her head. "Are you still here?"

Draco nearly spat out the drink he'd just taken. It had not taken him long to discover that Luna was more perceptive than he had ever imagined. If Kara had not noticed his growing reticence during dinner, Luna had, and she seemed to have decided that she was on Draco's side.

Kara looked affronted. "Yes, actually, I was here first."

"I see. I want the unflappable Draco Malfoy to dance with me." She turned back to him, dismissing Kara with her body language. "So. Which will it be?"

He was slightly caught off guard. Luna or Kara? Well, it was an obvious choice, but still—_Luna?_ That was unexpected but he appreciated her support nonetheless. Dancing with her was better than having a conversation with Kara or getting progressively more drunk while glaring at redheads.

"Luna. One dance."

Kara glared at them, licked her lips at Draco, and said, "When you get bored, come find me."

Luna seemed to float next to him as he led her to the dance floor and took her in his arms. He almost instantly regretted going against his gut, even if it got him away from Kara. The relief was only fleeting; he _didn't dance_. He felt surrounded and pressed upon; people were bumping into him, and touchinghim. She was a decent dance partner, but she barely seemed to pay him any attention, which was a little annoying. She seemed to be looking for something or someone. Not that he wanted to make small talk, but still. It was strange. But then, it was Luna Strange was her thing.

The song seemed to go for hours and Draco was getting anxious. He wanted to get off the floor, and was about to excuse himself from Luna when two things happened simultaneously.

First, he heard someone say "Ow!" very loudly and very nearby. Second, someone bumped into him, hard. He turned to scold the person, but his words caught in his throat when he saw that the person who had bumped into him was Hermione. And judging by the look on her face, she was also the person who'd said 'ow'.

Draco glanced around now that he and Luna had stopped dancing to notice that Neville had been both Hermione's dance partner and the cause of her distress.

Hermione's face was twisted in pain and she didn't even look at the person she'd run into—namely, him.

"I—I'm sorry, Hermione," stuttered Neville. "Do you need help?"

Draco looked around—no one, especially not _Fred_,seemed to have noticed what happened, but then Luna had steered them to one side of the large room.

"No," she said quickly, putting her hand up to ward him off. "I'm fine." She tried to walk, and grimaced when she put weight on her right foot. She took another tentative step toward the edge of the floor and her knees buckled, causing her to stumble. Draco caught her, and swept her into his arms in one fluid motion.

"Uhm, Draco? Should I get help?" Neville asked, looking completely horrified at what he'd done.

"No need," Draco said shortly.

"Should we come?" he offered.

"I'll take care of her," he replied without looking at Hermione; though he could feel her burning, inquisitive gaze on him as he quickly carried her into an empty side room.

She didn't say a word, but she also didn't protest his ministrations. She only put her arms around his neck to keep from being jostled.

Draco's heart was pounding, and he was pretty sure she could feel it. She had never been this close, and oh _Merlin,_ she smelled like perfection. Her hair was bouncing on his shoulder and with every fourth step it brushed his face. It was the softest thing he'd ever felt. And where the skin of her arms touched the skin of his neck, he felt fire.

Gently he set her in a chair and he heard a sharp intake of air. He looked at Hermione finally, and she was biting her lip, looking down at her foot. She looked up at him and for a moment said nothing, her eyes a raging squall of mixed emotions. Then her features darkened, and she looked away.

"Are you okay?" he asked with concern, though it was a stupid question.

"No, I'm not bloody okay," she sniffed. "Remember the part where you carried me in here?"

Oh, she was _not_ a happy witch.

"What hurts?"

She gaped at him, incredulous. "My arm. What do you think?" She leaned down to look at her foot and started to take her shoe off, but one touch caused her to gasp in pain.

"Bad question. How does it hurt?"

"Like someone hit my foot with a bat as hard as he could."

Draco bent down in front of her and examined the shoe; it was black, pointy, and tall. It was ridiculous how women insisted on wearing things that could serve as a torture device in a pinch. He'd once seen his aunt use it to good effect. He gingerly touched the tip and Hermione slapped his hand.

"Ow," she said, scowling at him. "Don't."

"The shoe needs to come off so I can look at it."

She tried again, but the pain was too much, and she was unsuccessful at pulling the shoe from her foot. Tears welled up in the corners of her eyes, and Draco knew she must be in tremendous pain; he'd never seen her cry except in the most severe situations or during the occasional romantic film. But she was so strong, too. She was fighting the tears, fighting crying. Maybe because he was there.

"Let me," he said. He gripped the heel end of the shoe in one hand, then positioned his other hand under the sole. "This will hurt, but only for a second."

She nodded, and gripped the arms of the chair so hard her knuckles turned white.

Draco met her gaze and gave a curt nod, then in a swift motion pulled the shoe off.

Hermione yelped in pain, grabbing his shoulder and squeezing so hard that it hurt. But he knew his pain was nothing compared to hers, so he did not complain. Once the wave passed, they both looked at her foot. A huge bruise had already formed around her toes, and the big toe appeared to be broken. A few other toes were bleeding.

Draco let out a whistle. "Merlin, what did he _do_?"

"Neville isn't the most coordinated … he landed hard on my foot and then turned, twisting my foot beneath his."

He sighed. "Let me fix this?" he asked, looking up at her.

She nodded, biting her lip.

He tried with all of his might to keep his hands from shaking out of nervousness as he took her heel in his hand. That didn't work. So he put himself on one knee and rested her foot on his other leg. He grimaced to himself as he realized bitterly that he was in proposal stance. Only if he were to say those words, she'd probably kick him in the head, despite her broken toe.

Draco healed the broken toe, then the bleeding ones, then the bruises. Hermione said nothing through the entire process, only sucked in her breath when she felt a little pain. When he finished, he set her foot down on the carpet.

"Wiggle," he said.

She did, and then smiled warmly at him. "All better."

"Good," he said and then sat on the floor, suddenly feeling a little sick from all the heavy drinks and drama of the evening.

"Thank you," she said softly, after a moment of silence passed.

"You're welcome," he replied. They looked at each other and he watched as her eyes were first friendly, then surprised, then completely closed and resigned. Like she had only just then realized that they were in a room all alone.

She wiggled her toes again and looked at the door and sighed. "I'm not exactly anxious to dance right now." She looked at him. "But you should get back to your date," she said with a sudden sneer he hadn't known she possessed.

He blinked.

"She's—"

"Whatever, Malfoy. Like I care." Hermione bent to either examine her toes or avoid meeting his eyes.

Draco frowned at her use of his surname. That actually _hurt_. Her sudden anger was confusing; if she truly didn't care, she wouldn't have brought it up or reacted the way she did. The thought sobered him. She still cared about him, in some way at least.

"I can explain," he started, suddenly tired of the forced distance between them, but then he didn't know what he'd actually say.

"How long have you two been together?" she asked, cocking her head to the side and giving him a Mrs. Weasley look.

"I just met her tonight."

Her jaw dropped for the umpteenth time since he'd sat down to dinner. "What? Then what was all that—that—garbage at dinner?"

He grimaced. "Something of a … joke gone bad."

"A _joke_? Well, I don't think it was very funny."

He shrugged. "Nor did I, actually. Pansy … was trying to help."

"Help? With what?"

Draco thought quickly. "She reckoned I might be uncomfortable at a table with three_couples_ and wanted me to have someone to talk to." He thought he saw her recoil slightly.

She ignored his jab. "Uh-huh. Well, you pretty much ruined dinner for everyone."

"Luna didn't seem bothered," he added, his frustration building. Why was she being so snippish? "Dinner was ruined for Neville when he spilled his wine on his shirt, and … and _Fred_ probably didn't notice a thing, he was so busy staring down your dress!"

"Jealous?" Her face turned bright red the instant the words were out, and it was obvious she had spoken without thinking.

"The day I am jealous of Fred Weasley is the day I break my wand and go live among the Muggles." His reaction was instinctive, drawn from years of self-preservation and he lied through his teeth, but she was too flustered to notice.

She opened her mouth to speak but the door burst open and in came the red-headed joker himself—Fred.

"Hermione! Are you okay?"

She sent Draco one last conflicted glare, then said, "Yes, I am, Fred. Thank you."

Fred turned to Draco, who was still sitting on the floor with his arms resting on his bent knees. "Hey, thanks, mate."

Draco merely nodded, and watched numbly as Fred led Hermione out of the room. His insides, which had been boiling from jealousy and anger moments before, were now frozen. He replayed the last few minutes in his mind. How had the conversation taken that particular turn? He had been insanely jealous all through dinner, of course, but he knew he hadn't let it show. He was too good at masking his emotions to have been careless.

That meant her reaction had come from somewhere else, though he couldn't imagine its source. Prior to that evening, he hadn't even known about her and Fred, so it didn't make any sense.

I Unless … /I He shook his head. i She /i wasn't the jealous one, she couldn't be … That made no sense either.

After a few minutes, he found his way back into the ballroom, back to the bar, and ordered the strongest thing they had, no longer concerned with appearances. Kara came up to him, and he made it quite clear that he wanted nothing at all to do with her. Only by chance did he notice that Hermione had been watching the exchange, a look of interest, albeit cool and reserved, on her face, and he was a little glad she'd seen. Maybe then she'd believe him—yet she might still think poorly of him for carrying on with Kara for no apparent reason.

Oh well. No one had ever accused him of being a good person and certainly not a perfect one. He made mistakes and plenty of them. Maybe he tried to be good, but he knew for sure he wasn't any good at it. He would always have that streak of nasty running through his blood. His pure blood.

"Having fun, Draco?" said Pansy, stopping beside him.

He scowled. "Tons." Then he looked at her. "Where do you know Kara from, anyway?"

"Marseilles. Why was dinner awful?"

He shook his head with a shudder. "Kara was … a bit too convincing and I played along a little too well. I … think Harry wants to pull my fingernails out with pliers and string me up by my hair. And Hermione …" He took a drink from his glass.

"I'm so sorry, Draco! I had no idea! I only wanted you to have someone to talk to, and someone who would show some interest in you. Just, you know, so Hermione wouldn't think you never go out."

"I _don't_ go out, Pansy. She knows that." He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "You tried. Thanks. I gotta go."

"It's not midnight!"

He looked at her pointedly.

"Oh, fine. You can go."

He chuckled. "I'm glad I have your leave."

She smiled at him reluctantly. "As though I could ever make you do something you didn't want to do."

"Lovely evening, Pansy," he said, trying to sound sincere before kissing her cheek. "Happy Christmas."

"I'll see you soon, okay?"

Draco nodded and finished his drink, then set the empty glass on the table. He felt oddly sober considering the amount of alcohol he'd consumed. Had Pansy requested all non-alcoholic drinks? Or had he been through one too many sobering moments that night? No matter. He glanced around the room; Harry and Ginny were dancing, as was Ron, and Pansy was now making her way out to him. He didn't see Hermione or Fred anywhere and it made his blood boil. _Stop, leave off, _he scolded himself, and promptly left the room.

He was walking through the main hallway toward the door when he heard his name.

"Malfoy."

Draco stopped. He knew that voice. A dozen emotions coursed through him, the good ones overpowering the negative, and so he did not simply resume his path and ignore her. He counted to ten before turning around. "Granger."

She'd walked right up to him, stopping a few feet away. Her demeanor suggested that she'd either had enough alcohol that she didn't care about what she'd blurted earlier or she was ignoring it. She stood with her hands on her hips in the gesture that Ginny did so well. He couldn't help but think that she looked endlessly adorable.

"Why are you leaving?" she asked in a voice that said she was itching to run and tattle on him.

"Why do you care?" he snapped, mentally exhausted from the constant effort of behaving antagonistically toward her. It was much easier for him to behave naturally around her.

"It's not midnight yet. Pansy wants everyone to stay until midnight. Something about a special presentation or guest arriving …"

"Since when do I do what people want me to do? And what concern is it of yours?"

She opened her mouth to speak, then thought better of it. After a moment's pause, she replied. "None, of course. I just don't want an angry Pansy on my hands."

"Pansy knows I'm leaving, that these … affairs aren't my thing. She knows me."

Hermione frowned at him sadly. "I thought I knew you too," she said, and turned to leave.

Draco wanted to call after her, to demand that she explain her declaration, but his thoughts were interrupted. She had taken a few steps when an unknown force propelled her back toward him. He caught her to steady her so she wouldn't fall, and she rounded on him, a murderous look in her eyes.

"Let me go."

He released her, putting his hands up. She tried to walk away, glaring over her shoulder, but the same thing happened—she ended up in his arms. This time she pushed him away.

"Malfoy, what are you doing?" she asked angrily.

"Nothing at all. Why are you getting so angry?"

"Because. You—you're impossible. And infuriating, and—"

"None of that can possibly be news to you." He kept his features controlled, displaying a slightly indignant expression, but inside he wanted to shake her and ask exactly when she had decided that he was impossible to be around, and how he was so infuriating. "Besides, you're not exactly easy to be around, either."

"Oh my, this will be fun," came a third voice. Both Hermione and Draco looked around for its source.

"Over here," it called. "On the wall."

To Draco's left was a painting of an old man. He had a red and white beard, bright blue eyes, a freckled face and a smug grin. He looked like a cross between Dumbledore and Ron.

"What are you talking about?" demanded Hermione.

The portrait hummed and slowly looked up at something over their heads. So Draco and Hermione looked up too.

Draco recognized it first, and whipped his head down to look at Hermione, eyes wide. He felt a little sick. He knew Pansy, and he knew what that … _stuff_ hanging above their heads was. It was another one of her ideas she thought was witty.

Hermione met his gaze and narrowed her eyes at him. "What is that?" she asked, pointing above her.

"What do you think, Hermione?"

She paled. "Is it really?"

"Afraid so," the painting interrupted. "Miss Parkinson likes her little fun. "That's the notorious Mistletoe, _Viscum album. _Parasitic plant, actually. Bloke by the name of Baldur died from its poison, and—""

Draco groaned. "It's more than just the plant, though."

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked.

"I've been prey to Pansy's magical mistletoe before. I can easily get us out of this little situation."

"What situation?" She asked, exasperated, crossing her arms.

"Er …" He felt the heat rush into his cheeks and stopped.

"Allow me," said the painting. "You may have noticed that you're unable to walk away from the young man. That is because the mistletoe was charmed to secure a kiss from any unwitting couple who happened to walk beneath it." Hermione gaped at the painting. "In other words, you can't leave until you plant one on him."

She sucked in her breath. "I am _not _kissing _him_."

Draco felt a little hurt. Wounded pride, and all that. "Oh, it won't be that bad, Granger. You'll live through it. Might even enjoy it."

Hermione refused to look at him.

Draco didn't think, just grabbed her wrist and before she knew what was happening, pulled her close to him. She gasped and tried to get away, fighting him with every movement.

"Be still, Granger."

"My nameis Hermione!"

He blinked. Well, that was a nice, convenient double standard. He grabbed her wrist and hesitantly pulled her hand up to his mouth like a gentleman from an age past. She froze, her eyes wide, as he nodded politely and kissed her hand. She jerked it away, but her gaze never left his. There was something new in her eyes too; she seemed genuinely surprised and affected by his gesture.

"There. You should be free to go now."

Hermione just stared at him, holding her hand at an odd angle. She turned and walked away from him, only to be pulled back once more. This time, he wasn't expecting it, and she knocked into him, sending them both to the floor.

"Merlin! Malfoy, what are you playing at?"

He stood quickly and brushed himself off. He reached a hand down to help her up, which she only stared at. "_Draco_," he said, giving her a stern look and retracting his hand. Then he frowned, and shrugged. "It used to work…"

The painting cackled. "Miss Parkinson said she used to put that little loophole in for any of her boys that got stuck with someone called Millicent. Now you have to actually kiss. On the mouth." The old man laughed merrily. "Oh, and you two seem to hate each other! This is the most fun I've had in, well, too long."

"We don't hate each other," Hermione snapped at the jovial work of art.

Draco looked at her. "You've done good job of acting like you hate me."

She looked at him. "Well, I don't," she said quietly.

He softened. "You know I don't hate _you_, right?"

She nodded.

"Then why are we acting like this?" He wanted to ask why _she _was acting like this, as he hadn't changed in his behavior, but thought it best not to. They were actually talkingabout it, which was near to a miracle.

She looked away. "It's…complicated." She was still sitting on the floor, her pretty dress getting rumpled, but not seeming to care one bit. He smiled; he missed that, too. He watched her sigh and pull her knees to her chest, resting her chin on them.

"You're not going to tell me what's going on, are you?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I can't. I'm sorry; I wish I could."

"You can, but you just won't."

She shrugged. "I suppose. Same difference."

He sat down too, not wanting her to have to strain her neck to talk to him. After a few minutes of silence, he said, "You're getting your dress wrinkled."

She laughed, and looked up. He was surprised to see that her eyes were bright and shiny, as if she'd been crying.

He frowned, wanting suddenly to be able to comfort her; their entire disagreement, the last two-and-a-half months, the fact that she was at the party with Fred, everything was forgotten. "Hermione, are you all right?"

"Yeah, fine." She looked away and casually wiped her eyes and he knew she didn't want him to know she'd been crying.

"Please," he said quietly and she looked back at him. "Did I—I mean, was there something—" Just then a cheer went up from down the hall, in the ballroom.

"It must be close to midnight," she said.

"Hermione, talk to me." His gut was a mass of twisted nerves, axons firing spasmodically. If she did, if there was something bothering her other than the amusement park, if he'd hurt her unknowingly, if there was something he could make right, then nothing in the entire world would stop him.

She hesitated, as though she seriously wanted to tell him, but was still fighting with herself about it. She shook her head and sniffed. "Let's just—get this over with. Okay?"

Draco nodded and stood, feeling as though someone had slammed into his lungs, forcing all the air out, and he couldn't draw another breath. He offered his hand to her once again; this time she accepted it. And quick as a wink, his hands were suddenly sweaty and his mouth had gone dry. An awful, pleasant swirling sensation burst into furious motion in his stomach. She inched closer to him, and he saw that her breathing was ragged and shallow. Then she stopped, still too far away. He would have to go the rest of the way to her.

He took one step to close the distance between them. Hermione was staring directly forward, at his chest. He reached up and took her chin in his hand, gently tilting her head up toward his. She looked at him, and her eyes were clear, now full of that other something he'd seen before when he'd kissed her hand. And he still didn't know what it was. They just looked at each other for what seemed an eternity. Her eyes were swirling, searching his. They showed a hint of fear, but not fear of him, per se. She blinked, and then swallowed.

He thought he should probably say something—something witty to ease the tension, or suave to increase it. But he didn't think either of them would be able to hear over the hammering of his heart, or the questions in her eyes.

As he brought his face closer to hers, she kept her eyes locked with his, as though she were anchoring herself to him. When his lips were an inch from hers, she shut her eyes tight, took a shallow breath, and a pleasant sigh escaped her lips.

Draco paused in his descent, smiling to himself before gently, lightly covering her lips with his. Her lips were soft and warm and they shot a fire through him that he felt in the deepest part of his soul. He felt, almost imperceptibly, the remaining distance between their bodies lessen. He didn't move right away though he knew—something was_screaming _at him—that he should. It took every ounce of strength he had to pull away from her seconds later.

When they parted, she was looking at him with such depth of emotion that he was sure she would drown him. Slowly, she put distance between them, never breaking their eye contact. He couldn't move, as he wasn't sure his knees would support him.

"It should work now," he said hoarsely, also unsure of his voice.

She nodded and walked away, until she was well beyond where the invisible boundary had been, and then turned around to look at him. Neither spoke, they only looked at each other, Draco fighting hardthe urge to go to her and take her in his arms and continue what they'd started, now that he trusted his legs again.

Then she disappeared back into the ballroom.

Draco stood rooted to the spot.

"Well, I need a cold shower," said the portrait.

Draco snapped back to life and glared at it, then turned and left the house to the sound of cheering and clapping and merry-wishing ringing in his ears.

**ooo**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter or anything related to it.

**A/N**: Unending thanks are due to two wonderful betas, eilonwy—as always, thank you for the awesome job and for sticking with me and this story!—and to drcjsnider, for coming in on the middle of this story and jumping right in. Your help was tremendous!


	7. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer**: Harry Potter and his world belong to JK Rowling. I write to learn. No money is being made.

**Beta Credits**: A writer could not ask for a better team of betas. Endless thanks to eilonwy, drcjsnider, and Buzzy.

**ooo **

**Chapter 6**

_It started with Draco walking down a dark, wet hallway. At first, he saw only a door before him, at the end of the hall, and nothing around him but a black void. As he walked, the details filled in. The floor was concrete, with cracks running across it like the rungs of a ladder. The walls were plaster, cracked along the edges, revealing the brickwork beneath. He could hear water dripping somewhere in perfect time._

_**Drip. Drip. … Drip. Drip …Drip. Drip.**_

_As the entire hallway came into focus, he realized the building was one he'd been in before, many times, and Draco was completely and utterly terrified. Panic and fear had twisted his nerves into a frayed mess in the pit of his stomach, resulting in labored breathing and sweaty palms. The abandoned warehouse on the river near the Channel was where the Dark Lord flexed his more creatively evil muscles._

_Behind him was a steel grey door that magically led onto the most twisted, narrow passageway in Knockturn Alley. In front of him was a black door, the other side of which promised discomfort at best, excruciating pain at worst. Never death through this door; that one was red. After passing the halfway point, he noticed that it seemed to be staying a fixed distance before him, and he could no longer approach it. Draco's heart rate sped up and he clenched his hand so tightly around his wand that he feared he would puncture his skin. Frantically, he started to run, but the door didn't move any closer. _

_There was a sound of hollow laughter to his right and he jumped, startled. Keep moving. He started again, to more laughter. Draco glanced at the floor, hoping for some explanation of why the door loomed at the same distance, only to discover that his feet weren't moving. He'd taken steps in inches instead of feet. His heart pounded._

_There was no return from the black door and Draco knew it. The hallway was one way and he'd been there many times. On each visit during the war, his thoughts had turned progressively more toward running, not just from the door but from everything behind it, everything it stood for, but he couldn't leave his duty, his destiny._

_Draco stopped running and stared at the door. _

_Then he was in the enormous room on the other side, standing in the middle, a bright light shining down on him. A blood-stained guillotine stood behind him to the right of the door. A rack was hidden behind the red curtains to his left. Devices that hadn't even been given names were in rooms that branched from the one where he stood. He knew; he'd seen them all in action. He'd put men and women in those rooms, been the direct cause of their suffering and heard the screams as the tortured begged for mercy, offered information, money, anything to end the suffering._

_Hollow laughter rang in his ears and he moved forward, always forward, toward the source of the blinding pain in his arm. A monster with red, slitted eyes awaited him._

_**Draco.**_

_Bile rose toward Draco's mouth and he swallowed hard. The snakelike creature's movements were as fluid as water, deadly and swift. _

_**Closer, Draco.**_

_Draco had no choice but to comply. He walked with as much purpose as he could muster and ended up shuffling his feet. An unknown force propelled him and he stopped at the foot of the dark, stone rock out of which a throne had been carved._

_**Bow.**_

_When Draco was on his knees, the Dark Lord snapped his fingers, something he only did when he was very, very angry. Every fiber of Draco's being was stretched taut. _

_**We have a new victim. She is … for you.**_

_Draco knew he should be grateful — he'd been given the honor of taking a life — but he knew something was wrong. He hadn't done anything especially outstanding to deserve the gift._

_**Bring her.**_

_The blood flowing through Draco's heart—pumped though his vena cavae, into the veins of his arms, legs, fingers, and toes, transferred to the capillaries and oxygenated in the lungs, then back to his heart to begin the cycle anew—froze at the sight of the broken, bloodied woman who was dragged into the room between two Death Eaters._

_He knew her. He screamed …_

And sat straight up in bed, chest heaving, gulping in air by the lungful, drenched in sweat.

Directly opposite his bed, hanging on the wall, was the painting Hermione had given him. It was the first thing his eyes landed on and he stared at it, unblinking, focused on one particular star that pulsed with the rhythm of the sea, until his vision cleared and he couldn't see the images from his nightmare.

When the horror passed, Draco fell back onto his bed, limp and spent. The sun was rising; he could tell by the color of the light on the wall. He had no desire to get up, no desire to think or move or breathe. All he wanted was to forget, to be free.

He started to shiver. When he'd sat up, the blankets that had been clutched to his chest had fallen to his waist and he had left them there. Now the sweat on his skin was evaporating, chilling him. Draco absently pulled the covers to his chin, staring at the painting, scared to fall back asleep.

**ooo**

When he woke again, it was very late in the morning. His eyes fell again on the painting and he sighed, the events of his slumber a hazy memory. He never forgot his nightmares, but he didn't see any point in dwelling on them. They were simply manifestations of his fears, drawn from his past experiences, that his subconscious focused on in order to frighten him, He had a large portfolio of images from which to choose to illustrate his worst dreams.

Draco hadn't had a nightmare in nearly two weeks, the longest stretch without one, and he had faintly hoped they were on their way out for good. Usually they followed stressful days or events in his life, a merger at work or a visit to his mother's grave. Never before had he suffered one following a good event.

He smiled unconsciously as he remembered the previous night. He'd had a bit of trouble falling asleep the night before, because his mind refused to do anything but think about that _kiss._ Before his nightmare, he had continued to think about it by way of light, pleasant dreams. And now that his eyes were open, staring at the ceiling, he was _still _thinking about it.

Hermione had been in his nightmares before, but never like this. The first time it happened was after she had given him the painting, and since then, her role in his nightmares had grown. At first, she was one among many he witnessed being tortured or killed. Then she became one of a few, and then she was the only one. He would watch, and scream, but no one could hear his protests over the cheers of the others watching. Always she would look at him, just like she had when he saw her hit with the Cruciatus curse during a battle, her eyes pleading. He was always powerless, unable to do anything to help.

This was the first time _he _had been told to inflict the pain on her, and he wondered if the new twist was a result of his revelation the night before. He _liked_ her, he wanted her, and the idea scared him. The worst thing he could imagine was something bad happening to Hermione, and even more so if he were somehow involved, or the cause of it. Draco knew that she was safe, at least, as safe as any of them were, from Death Eaters and their brand of evil, but there were many different kinds of evil. Inequality and prejudice still existed in the wizarding world; there were people who still hated her because of her blood. Though he did not associate with such individuals, he still heard of their activities.

Part of him was glad she was with Fred, safely away from the dark corners of his mind and his vivid imagination. He couldn't hurt her, drag her down with him when he stumbled — an inevitability he anticipated and dreaded more with each passing day.

Draco sighed and shook his head rapidly to clear his thoughts. He didn't need to think about that right now. He was tucked in his bed in his empty house, and he wouldn't be seeing Hermione for weeks, most likely.

A grin spread across his face at the image of Fred seeing their kiss. The thought made him happier than it should have, and then he felt a remnant of the desire the kiss, and being so close to her, had stirred in him.

It would have to suffice until he saw her again. He wondered what their next interaction would be like. Would she ignore him? Would she carry on as though nothing had happened?

The stars on his painting twinkled and drew his gaze to the end of his bed. His brain put things together; last night had been Christmas Eve, so now it was Christmas. He had a pile of gifts at the foot of his bed, likely all magicked to arrive there before he woke, but he didn't care just yet. He wasn't finished thinking. He needed to give his mind free rein to think about it _now _so that he wouldn't dwell on it later. Get it out of his system, so to speak.

He replayed it over and over in his mind. It wasn't just a _kiss_. It had been so much more than that. It was his heart pounding, her warm, rapid breath as he neared her, her tiny, barely audible squeak that made him pause. The feel of her lips on his, however light, however brief, was indescribable. He could still remember that feeling, and his lips protested against the absence of hers, even this morning.

He remembered the look on her face when she'd stepped away from him, full of shock and surprise. He'd gone to the party alone, flirted insatiably with a perfect stranger through dinner, and then kissed Hermione under charmed mistletoe. What would she think of him _now?_ Surely, she would have noticed hisreactions, as he'd noticed hers. Had he given himself away? What did her racing heart mean? She was with Fred! Even if he had given something away, there were ways to fix it, albeit unpleasant ways. Ways that involved him being mean to her to remove any suspicion. Or, kissing someone else and letting her hear of it.

He shuddered at the thought. He didn't think that he — even he— could snog someone he didn't care about. Not anymore. Once he would have done so without a second thought, but now … it was inconceivable. The only person he wanted to snog was very much, at present, unsnoggable. He groaned and threw a book across the room, relishing the sound of impact. He'd bought a few old, beaten-up paperbacks for just this purpose. He needed to express the violence that had been ingrained in him growing up on occasion and sacrificed a few worthless books to the cause. It was a far better alternative to the bullying he had done when he was younger.

The kiss with Hermione, though devastatingly brief, had put all prior kisses he'd shared to shame. It was true that honestly caring about someone intensified the sensation beyond his imagination. Although real, honest kisses weren't abundant in his past, even if they had been, he suspected he would forget them all in light of what he had shared with her.

Why bother with others when there was _that _out there?

Draco sat up and examined the stack of gifts. He was glad he didn't have an audience; people watching him, waiting for his reaction, always made him nervous. But when he saw the names on the packages—Harry, Ron, Ginny, Molly—he wished he had accepted the many invitations to the Burrow, despite the inevitable discomfort. At that moment, he thought he could have put up with watching her and Fred, having them watch him, if it meant being with his friends.

He reached for the first package. It was from Fred and George. He scowled and felt a fresh wave of jealousy bombarded his gut, accompanied by pain, anger, and loss, all in one. He opened it carefully, lest it should bite, to find new products from their shop. Their originality in products did not extend to giving gifts; they merely assumed everyone would appreciate more wares from their joke shop.

From Molly and Arthur he got a Weasley sweater, green with a silver "D" over an excellent depiction of a Hungarian Horntail. It was the fourth Mrs. Weasley-knitted gift he had received in just nine months, He'd received a pair of socks and a scarf on his birthday, a hat at Easter. Harry and Ron had told him that Molly was just going to make up for all the time lost during Hogwarts. Molly had also packed some food with the Christmas present. The smell of the mincemeat pies made his stomach growl, and he wished once more that he hadn't been so stubborn and gone to the Burrow first thing upon waking. But it was too late; they were probably all together, sipping spiced pumpkin juice, eating Christmas pudding … he'd missed the presents and by the slant of the sun, the Christmas meal as well.

The remaining presents were from Harry, Harry and Ginny together, Ron, Pansy, Charlie, Percy, and Hermione. He saved her gift for last.

It was wrapped in shimmering gold paper with blue trimmings. He carefully opened the gift to reveal another painting, this one of his house. It captured the grounds, the cliff and the sun, and it seemed to hold its own light. It was amazing, and his eyes darted to the lower right corner where he saw in gold ink this time: H. Granger, as before. He smiled in awe at the depiction. She'd captured his small house at its best, with the sun shining, illuminating the grass and his garden in full bloom. He turned it over and found a piece of parchment stuck to the back.

"_I thought maybe for your book room. Hermione."_

He smiled sadly. Merlin, he missed her. But she was someone else's now, wasn't she? Draco scowled. Fred Weasley. How could she have gone for _him_? His hair was outrageous, looked like it hadn't been trimmed in years, his nose—_No, stop_, he scolded himself. She had chosen Fred. End of story. Besides, it wasn't as though _he _was any great catch: reclusive, snarky, rude when the mood struck him … a dark and violent imagination …

Draco got out of bed and pulled on a pair of faded jeans. His stomach growled again, and he made his way down the stairs. He didn't make it to the kitchen, however, because as soon as he reached the bottom step, it was as though someone had lifted a Silencing Spell. In his living room, _his_room, in _his _house, were all the Weasleys, plus Pansy, Harry, and Hermione, making as much noise as the crowd in Diagon Alley on the day before Christmas.

No one noticed him at first and Draco stared open-mouthed as they all bustled about, carrying on various assigned tasks, such as bringing in wood from outside, and hanging ornaments on the tree they'd set up in the corner.

Then George noticed him and called out, "He's awake!"

As one, all fourteen people stopped what they were doing and looked at him. "Happy Christmas!" they shouted.

He blinked, astonishment evident on his face. He shivered; he would be needing a shirt for this.

Draco turned without a word of welcome or acknowledgement and ran back up the stairs, pulled on the first thing he saw, and went downstairs again. Everyone was still swarming like bugs in his small space, and he couldn't help but be swayed by the overpowering flood of holiday spirit. Just a touch, mind you. Not enough to make him sing carols and hug strangers. A touch.

Molly came to give him a hug when she noticed his return. "Sorry for the surprise, dear. We all had a nice chat and decided that we refused to let you be all alone today. So, here we are!"

He sat down on the sofa, dazed, All eyes were on him, and for once, the entire Weasley clan was quiet. It was uncomfortable, but not, at the same time.

"How did you get in?" he finally managed.

"Hermione let down your wards," said Molly.

He made it a point to not look at her. "I change them every month or so," he returned.

"She … er … guessed, she said," offered Arthur.

"Oh. Uh, how long have you been here, exactly?" The way his house looked and smelled, he thought they could have been there for a week. How had she guessed? True, she'd been to his house a number of times, and he had told her how to lower the wards to allow Apparation and entrance into his home, but he had changed it since her last visit, two months before. He always used book titles, but he had hundreds of books …

"Since eight this morning. Cast silencing charms so we wouldn't wake you."

"But it's almost noon!" he said anxiously. At least they hadn't been there when he'd woken screaming from his nightmare.

"Yes, dear. You had a bit of a lie-in."

Draco caught sight of Ron sniggering and Pansy elbowing him. He couldn't completely absorb it all right away. "Well, uhm, thanks."

Molly squeezed his flawed arm. "Don't mention it. Lunch is on in about ten minutes." With that, the noise and activity resumed and Molly made her way to the kitchen.

It turned out to be the best Christmas he'd ever had in his life, which really wasn't saying much, considering his past. The pick-up Quidditch game that lasted nearly three hours was the most fun he could ever remember having, despite being on Fred's team.

Everyone stayed in the house after the game or in the large, snow-covered front garden, so when he needed a moment of solitude just before dinner, he stole out the back, intending to sit and watch the sunset. He got about halfway between the house and the cliff and stopped, shoving his hands in his pockets and enjoying the feel of the frigid, biting wind through his hair laced with the phantom whispers of his mother that only he could hear.

He heard a small noise behind him and was jerked from his peaceful reverie. He spun around to find Hermione leaning against the porch, He hadn't noticed her there when he'd left the house. They looked at each other briefly and he really wanted to say or do _something_, other than gawking lamely at her. He hadn't spoken to her all day; she'd been nearly inseparable from Fred. Even if he had found a moment to speak with her, he couldn't have asked the questions burning holes in his brain. Foremost, he wanted to know what she wouldn't tell him the night before, the reason she had been so completely complicated and mystifying.

The moment quickly lengthened to awkward proportions. She hadn't moved, and he was rooted firmly to his spot, his gaze directed a few feet to her right. "Happy Christmas," he forced out.

She shifted somewhat. "Happy Christmas."

"Aren't you cold?"

"Freezing, actually," she admitted, rubbing her arms.

He noticed that she hadn't even put on a jumper, just wore a long-sleeved, dark blue shirt. He wasn't dressed for the snow either, but his he barely felt the cold so soon after leaving his warm house. It wouldn't last long. "Merlin, Hermione," he mumbled, quickly going to her, but realizing when he reached her that he didn't have anything to offer for warmth.

She looked at him expectantly.

"I … er … don't have my wand."

"It's okay," she said, laughing, her teeth chattering. At the clear sound of her mirth, something inside him swelled. "I should go in anyway."

"Oh, all right," he said.

She gave him a small smile and hugged her arms to her chest, and then made to move past him. But she suddenly stopped, staring at something behind him. "Oh!" she gasped softly.

Draco turned and saw that the sun was about to disappear over the horizon. They stood there together, he now freezing as well, watching as the sky lit up with golden rays for an instant before the sun dipped out of sight.

"Have you ever thought about how interesting it is that the world isn't just plunged into darkness when the sun sets?" she asked, looking at him sideways.

It was the kind of question she always asked, one that boggled his mind, though not because of its complexity. No one but Hermione would even _think _of such things, and yet he found himself somewhat exhilarated by her questions all the same, and especially the conversations they often sparked. It was as though her questions fulfilled some strange, hidden, innate need.

He fought the smile but failed. "Not really, but now that you mention it—"

"Hermione, there you are!" came the voice of none otherthan Fred Weasley. Fred_bloody _Weasley. Draco scowled and looked away, anywhere but at the two of them.

"What is it, Fred?"

"Mum wants everyone inside for dinner. Is that okay, Malfoy?"

He shrugged. "Sure."

"Great, let's go in then. Merlin, Hermione, aren't you cold?"

Draco waited until they were inside before forming a tight, dense snowball and, with a running start, chucking it as hard as he could off the cliff.

The rest of the evening went really well, though he didn't get to talk to Hermione again. Not really, anyway. There was the occasional small talk, about the nut mix versus the mints, or the delightful cider, which Draco suspected had been 'enhanced' with Old Ogden's, but she pretty much stayed with Fred or Ginny the whole time, which, much to his chagrin, irked him to no end. When he finally said goodnight and ushered his guests out, a feat that took nearly half an hour thanks to Molly Weasley's constant hen-pecking and the other Weasleys forgetting things, he felt lighter than he had in, well, ever. Even though he felt torn in two about Hermione, at the same time he felt as though he belonged somewhere. He leaned against the closed door and relished the silence filled with echoes of the day's conversations and laughter. So that's what family was all about. He liked it. He could get used to it. He wanted to get used to it. He wanted it.

**ooo**

The day after Christmas, two days after Pansy's party, he jumped, for five and a half seconds, then righted himself on his broom. It took eight-tenths of a second to stop falling, and he came so close to the sharp edges of the rocks that he decided it was good enough. Five and a half seconds would be the official time.

Knock, knock.

Draco went to the door, curious and with a twinge of hope. Yesterday, his friends had pretended that nothing had happened, that dinner at Pansy's hadn't happen. But pretending didn't make it so, and Harry Potter was standing on his porch, looking as though he had just eaten something awful.

"Harry," he said, opening the door, trying not to look too disappointed.

"Draco." Harry walked into the front room and sat. "Let's talk."

"Go ahead," Draco said, sitting opposite Harry in a chair.

"I'm just going to come right out with this. You're my friend, so I can be blunt. What was all that about the other night?"

Draco sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Maybe it would be good to tell _someone_ the truth, other than Pansy and he would rather tell Harry than Ron. Maybe Harry would be kind and let him down gently, tell him he was ridiculous and needed to move on. That Hermione and Fred were perfect together and would be getting married in the spring. Something, _anything _to get him out of this hole.

"I'm in love with Hermione," he said. Then he blinked, twice, when the residual sound of his voice had faded. _What!?_ Had he actually just _said_that? Because he didn't remember thinking it, or intending to say it. It just spilled out from somewhere hidden. It took only one glance at Harry to know that Draco had, in fact, said it, because Harry's jaw was currently resting on his knees.

"What?" Harry yelled, half angry, half confused.

"Oh, bugger. I said that, didn't I?"

"Yes, you bloody well did. You're in _love _with her?"

Draco shrugged. "Apparently."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'd never really put it together like that in my head. It just sort of … said itself."

Harry shook his head slowly, trying to clear the fog. "You're in love with her. Well," he said, looking at Draco sternly. "You have a funny way of showing it."

"That was stupid on my part."

"Spot on. That's the understatement of the year, Malfoy. It was imbecilic, moronic … not to mention slightly nauseating and disgusting."

Draco grimaced. "Pansy had good intentions. She was trying to help …" he shook his head. "You'd have to know her better. She wanted to … protect me."

"Pansy? Protect you? From what?" said Harry, now confused.

After Draco explained everything to Harry, he was even more confused. "She wanted you to_hurt_ Hermione?" Harry asked, incredulously.

"No, not to hurt her, just to help me 'save face.' She didn't want me stuck at a table with all couples. I mean, Pansy … knows too. Probably before me, actually."

"Oh. Still. It was uncalled for."

"I couldn't agree more. Once it started, I didn't know how to stop it."

"You could've," Harry pointed out.

He felt, if possible, even worse. "Old habits and instincts," he mumbled. "'Must save reputation.' Can't let the enemy see you weak."

Harry rolled his eyes. "The Enemy? That's idiotic Draco."

Draco chuckled. "I know. I have no excuse. It was reflex."

After a few minutes of silence, Harry said, "So … You're really in love with her?"

"I don't know." He collapsed into the armchair. "It's complicated. It seems like I am. I mean, when Pansy told me about her and Fred I thought I'd been hit in the gut by a steam engine."

"Uh-huh. And you feel twisted and stupid whenever she's around, you wonder if you could ever be good enough for her."

"Exactly. Me? Good enough for _her_? Not bloody likely."

"Who knows?" said Harry. "I don't think this thing with Fred will last."

Exactly what he wanted to hear. And exactly what he _didn't _want to her. Draco dismissed him with a wave. "Doesn't matter."

"Sure it does. When they break up, you can—"

"I'm not going to do anything."

"Why not?"

Draco gave Harry an 'are you serious?' look and shuddered, remembering the general tones of his nightmare. "I am the _last _person she should get involved with, and as her friend, I should be the lastperson you would want for her."

"Just because of your past, that doesn't mean—"

"No, it's because of my _present_. I still struggle, every single day. I have demons I wrestle. Horrible memories of things I've seen. Things I've _done_. Nightmares …"

"You think the rest of us don't?" Harry interrupted.

Draco stopped and stared.

"We all went through the war, mate. We've all been through things we'd rather forget. I know you've seen a whole lot more, and your demons are darker than ours, but it's not just you. Ron still has trouble sleeping, even after all this time. Thinks as soon as he shuts his eyes that Death Eaters are going to rush into the room."

"I didn't know," said Draco quietly.

"And Hermione has panic attacks when she gets really stressed."

He knew that; she had told him a few weeks before they went to the amusement park. It had been the first really serious thing they had discussed and though he had felt awkward, and hadn't known all the right things to say, he felt honored that she had shared part of the dark side of her life with him.

"I see what you're saying. But you're exactly right and that's partly the point. I_have_ seen a great deal more than you lot, things you can't even imagine. I don't want to bring her into that, to expand her fear. I can't."

"Seems like it should be her decision if she wants to be brought in, not yours."

Stupid conversation. "We're done, Harry," he said warningly.

"All I'm saying is, don't count her out before she even gets a say in the matter."

"Fine. Point taken." He didn't want to talk about this anymore. Then, referring to the purpose of Harry's visit, he continued. "Does that sufficiently satisfy your curiosity?"

Harry eyed him warily. "Hardly. I'm more interested now than I was when I came over. But I reckon it'll have to do."

"Yes, it will." Draco stood. "And Potter? Four walls, okay? Not a _word._"

"Of course, Draco. I'd never tell her, or anyone."

"Not even Ginny."

Harry looked cross. "Fine. Not even Ginny. Promise."

"Fine. Now run along back to your pregnant wife." A huge grin flew onto Harry's face. "Congrats, by the way."

"Thanks, mate. And should it ever be an issue, give Hermione the benefit of the doubt. She's stronger than even I know. I bet she could take your demons."

The idea made Draco slightly sick. She deserved far better than his nightmares. Harry left.

Draco wrote Hermione a thank-you for the painting. "Hermione. It's beautiful. Book room. Absolutely. Draco."

**ooo**

Before Draco knew what was happening, The Obnoxious Holiday, situated in the middle of the second month, approached, and despite how much he _knew _it was stupid, and commercial, and inane, he couldn't help but be affected by it. Witches all over the wizarding world were giving their Significant Others very significant looks and not-so-subtle hints. His secretary had replaced the Christmas candy in the bowl on her desk with pink and red Every Flavour Beans, along with a sign that read, 'Eat at your own risk.'

He tried to ignore the approaching date as much as possible and was mostly successful, until it was the evening before the big day. He knew Muggles and Wizards everywhere would be judged according to the impossible standards set by books, songs, and syrupy movies. It was completely unfair. And Draco was glad he wasn't forced to perform the nauseating rituals of trying to be individual and thoughtful when the expected — flowers, cards, candy — was demanded. How much could that possibly really meananyway?

He had just returned from a meeting and was changing out of his suit robes and shirt when there was a knock on the door. He threw a T-shirt on that looked awful with his nice pants and went downstairs. He opened the door to find Ron standing on the other side.

"Weasley," he said.

"Malfoy. Having another lie-in, I see. Honestly, do you ever work?"

Draco smirked. "I run my own business, which means I set my own hours. As it happens, I just returned from a business meeting in France."

"France? Really?"

"Yes. Coming in? Or are you going to stand there gawking all afternoon?" Draco asked with a grin, opening the door.

Ron walked mechanically into the main room, ignoring Draco's comment, and started pacing. Draco sat down leisurely, watching him, amused.

"I've come to ask you something," said Ron.

"Okay, ask away."

"I want to marry Pansy."

Draco waited, but Ron's mouth was shut tight. "That's not a question, Ron."

"What do you think?" Ron stopped pacing and looked at him eagerly.

Draco considered the question. Pansy seemed genuinely happy for the first time Draco could remember. And he wanted things to stay that way. She had nothing but good things to say about Ron, who was treating her better than Draco could have hoped.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

Ron's face fell. "It's too soon, isn't it? I mean … we've only been together for eight months." He paused and looked at Draco, who was frowning slightly. "You think it's too soon."

"I didn't say that," Draco said patiently. "And Weasley, sit down. Your pacing is annoying."

"Sorry." Ron sat and started absently tapping his foot. "You don't think it's too soon? "

"I—"

Ron jumped up and resumed his circuit, from sofa to doorway to chair and back to the sofa. "I don't want to scare her away or anything, it's just that I know she's the one I want to spend my life with. And since I know that, I should just go ahead and tell her. Right?"

"I have no idea. Maybe you should talk to Harry, since, you know, he's actually married."

"Yeah, but you're Pansy's best friend, and Harry's married to my sister." Ron made a face. "And I want to ask your permission."

Draco sighed. "Weasley, haven't we had this conversation already?"

"No, not like I asked before. You're practically the only family she has left. Her dad's dead, and her mum's in the loony ward. So, I guess I'm asking for your blessing. You know, old fashioned-like." Ron gave him a hopeful smile.

"So … I get to play her dad."

"I just want someone close to her to agree that this is a good idea."

"Okay, then convince me of why I should give you my okay."

Ron looked at him. "I love her. She's amazing, she's incredible! I've never met anyone like her. She makes me laugh, and think, and we have fun together. And for some reason, she likes me too. I just feel like a whole person when I'm with her."

"What about when things get hard?" Draco asked, sitting up and leaning on his knees. "What if you get injured and can't play anymore? How will you take care of her? What about children? What about everything that could possibly happen in the world? Are you going to protect her, and cherish her like she deserves?"

Once he'd finished, Draco realized that he had just voiced his own concerns about relationships, about the prospect of a future with Hermione. He felt drastically inadequate and in addition to the reasons he gave Harry, Draco also worried about how he could take care of her. Not financially, but in all the other ways she deserved. Could he be attentive enough, understanding, patient?

"I know things will be hard. I know marriage is hard. I've talked to my parents already, and they gave me all kinds of advice. They told me this initial feeling of love will eventually fade, to be replaced by a different kind of love, one that will last forever as long as I'm dedicated to making it last. If I get hurt, and can't play, I can always find work. I did graduate Hogwarts, and I have connections in the Ministry and at Gringotts. We both want children, we've already talked about it a little. I will protect her from everything bad in the world, and when I can't, I'll be there for her and hold her and tell her I love her."

When Ron finished his rambling, he looked at Draco, who was frowning.

"What?" asked Ron.

"But how do you know? I mean, what makes you so sure that you'll even want to be around her in a year? How can any person _know _that?"

"I don't know. I just know that I know. You know?"

"No, I don't. Remember? Single."

"Right. Well, okay, so maybe you don't. But I'm telling you! You'll just know when it's your turn. You'll look at her and know that she's the one."

"How?"

"It's just a feeling. It makes you feel like you're flying."

Draco thought of jumping off his cliff. He thought of flying on his broom. Those two experiences made him feel alive. Like he was really, actually, breathing for a purpose. He'd felt that same way when he resolved to turn to the Light Side, like he could do anything, even fight off ten Death Eaters. He had to admit to himself that he felt that way with Hermione. She made him feel worth something, that he wasn't just wasting precious air. Maybe that's what love was. Someone to give you purpose in life. He didn't know about shared love, though, since he only had what he felt for her. He couldn't imagine what it would feel like if the person you adored _returned_ your feelings.

Ron had that with Pansy and if it were Draco, he wouldn't want to let go of the luck and happiness that had fallen into his lap. "Yeah, okay. You should marry her. Do you have a ring?"

Ron nodded and reached into his pocket to pull out a small box. He handed it to Draco, who opened it. A large diamond was set in a gold ring surrounded like a flower by smaller diamonds. It was stunning.

"Wow. This is … her."

"You think so?" Ron said excitedly. "It took me so long to choose."

"Yes, this is Pansy, exactly. Good job," he said, and handed the ring back to Ron.

He pocketed it inside his robes and looked at Draco intently. "What about you, mate?"

"What about me?"

"Well, Harry's married, and Ginny's pregnant, I want to ask Pansy to marry me. And you don't even have a girlfriend."

Draco chuckled. "So?"

"Even Hermione has a boyfriend." Draco's jaw clenched and his insides roared, but he said nothing. "Granted, it's only Fred."

"Why do you say that?" Draco asked.

Ron shrugged. "Because. It's my brother. I mean, I don't think he's ever had a serious thought, much less a serious relationship. I can't see why he asked Hermione out, or why she said yes. They'll never last."

"Oh." Two votes against her relationship with Fred lasting. Despite himself, despite the warnings not to let himself think about her, he found his inner ego preening.

"Seriously, though. You should get out more. You won't meet any eligible witches by staying here all the time."

That was true. But did he _want_ to meet any eligible witches? He'd found one he liked, only she was currently taken. Both Harry and Ron seemed to think they wouldn't last, so maybe he should just wait around for them to break it off. The whole process of meeting someone new seemed tiring and tedious to him. Still, a little company until Hermione and Fred ended didn't sound _too_ terrible.

Except it did. He still dreamed about their kiss on Christmas Eve, and usually in the dreams they didn't stop after just one. Always there was that first, soft, tentative kiss. Then things got a bit more heated. Before he knew it they were standing on the edge of his cliff, holding hands. They'd look at each other, smile, and leap off. Freedom to him was the wind rushing around him, and knowing he would land safely, with her.

"I'll think about it, Ron," he said, knowing full well he would do no such thing. But waiting for her was awful. And he didn't even know if she'd be interested in him anyway. Maybe just meeting some new people would be okay. He was always working, and when he wasn't, he was with Harry and Ron, and the other times he was at home, in his book room. Rearranging. He thought with a sad smile that Hermione hadn't been over yet to see her painting in the book room.

"Do," said Ron, standing. "Maybe Ginny or Hermione could set you up."

"I'm quite capable of meeting women on my own, thank you. I do still possess the famous Malfoy charm, and I can turn it on at will." He immediately regretted mentioning anything remotely close to what had happened the night of Pansy's party, but since Ron hadn't been at the table, he didn't even notice.

Ron rolled his eyes. "Right. Well, I've got to go. Thanks, Malfoy. Really." He headed toward the door.

"Weasley," called Draco. Ron turned around. "Do me a favor, and don't ask her tomorrow. Wait until the next day."

Ron frowned. "Why? That was my plan. You know, Val—"

"I know. But trust me on this. Okay?"

"Are you sure?" Ron asked, looking even more puzzled than before.

"Yes. Quite."

"Okay, if you say so."

"I do. Have a good day, Ron."

Ron waved and exited, then Disapparated with a _pop_.

Draco spent the next day buried in work, doing everything he could not to think about what Fred and Hermione were doing. He wasn't completely successful; at odd moments, she would pop into his head, smiling, or saying something thought-provoking, and he would have to push her out, sometimes forcefully. He planned on stopping at a pub after leaving his office at nearly nine and getting thoroughly wasted so that he wouldn't think about her for the rest of the evening, but he was stopped on his way out with a last minute request. Finally, at nearly one in the morning, he fell exhausted into bed.

And then it was the day _after_.

**ooo**

Knock, knock, knock

"Just a second!" she called.

He waited nervously, his heart pounding in his ears, adrenaline from his spontaneous idea still pumping through his blood. Then the door opened.

"Oh! Hi," she said, a little out of breath and clearly surprised.

"Bad time?" he asked, fear settling on him. His visit was unexpected, he knew that. They didn't hang out anymore, even though they'd last parted, after Christmas, on relatively decent terms. There had been no fighting, shouting, or yelling. But bugger it all, he _missed _her. So he was going to try to get back what they'd once had: a real friendship. He knew it was a tricky thing, that he was playing with fire, but he was confident that he could keep his feelings under control. That it was worth the risk of getting burned.

"Oh, no. I was just cleaning. Come in?" She opened the door further.

He hesitated. "Okay. But I'm just here for a minute."

She closed the door behind him. "What's up?"

He looked at her. Her hair was pulled up in a loose bun, and there were quite a few strands that had come free and fallen around her face. Her cheeks were flushed, obviously from cleaning. It smelled like lemons in the flat, and he heard music coming from somewhere. He tried to find something in her expression that would give him a clue to her thoughts. Nothing, though.

He took a deep breath and plunged. "A client gave me two tickets this morning for something called the Harlem Globetrotters. It's some kind of show. It's tonight. Want to come?" He held his breath; his heart was racing, his palms were sweaty.

She cocked her head. "What is it, again?"

"I have no idea. It's a Muggle show from the States."

He held up the tickets and she glanced at them, then looked back at him and a wave of uncertainty passed over her face. He feared she would say no. She bit her lip and it was obvious she was thinking about her decision very carefully. Finally the shadow passed and she smiled hesitantly. "Sounds fun. It'll be an adventure, discovering what these Globetrotters are all about." She glanced back at the tickets in his hand. "When is it?"

"The show is at 7:30."

"Okay, why don't you come by at six? I'll do something for dinner."

He nodded, refusing to show his relief and excitement. "I will do that." He moved toward the door. "Oh, and I don't think it's anything fancy."

"No formal dress and updo, then," she said, smiling and following him to the door. "Where are you going now?"

"Back to work. I've got a meeting at three, then another at 4:30. I just popped over during a bit of free time."

She leaned against the doorframe, looking at him speculatively. "It's good to see you again. I've missed … our talks."

"Oh. Right, me too. That's why I thought of you for this. It's been awhile since we, um, spent time together."

"We're good as friends, aren't we?" she said, an odd pitch to her voice.

He swallowed hard and nodded, fighting the gnawing feeling in his gut and reminding himself that all he had wanted to do was see her again, to be friends again. Then it hit him: they were going to spend the evening together. He smiled. "I agree. I'll see you later, then."

"Yes. Bye."

He Disapparated, feeling light and nearly like he was flying.

**ooo**

He returned at promptly six, and knocked.

"Come in!" she called. "Oh, bugger!"

He pushed open the door. Something smelled awful.

"I'm in the kitchen." He made his way to the kitchen, and found Hermione standing over a smoking oven. She looked up at him. "I burned it. I never burn food."

"It happens."

"I know, but not to me."

"Is it salvageable?"

"No, not at all," she said, shaking her head sadly.

He smiled at her. "Well, what shall we do for dinner, then?"

She shut the oven and smiled hesitantly at him. "Ever eaten take-away?"

Draco had to let her order for him, as he had never eaten take-away or Chinese food. When the doorbell rang, Hermione hopped off the sofa and went to answer it, returning with a bag of food. She set it on the kitchen table and Draco joined her.

"So, take-away is like having house elves," he said, watching her pull box after box from the plastic bag. He was fascinated with way so much food could be contained in those foil boxes, each compartmentalized so efficiently.

"A bit, yes," she said sternly. "Only the take-away people get _paid_ for delivering food"

Draco grinned. "Right. Of course."

"You're hopeless. You want to come across as thoughtless and insensitive, but you're not at all."

"If I meant to seem thoughtless, then I would have."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Of course," she said dramatically. "What was I thinking? Your intentions are always crystal clear."

"What are these?" Draco asked, holding up what looked like two pieces of wood fused together on one end and slightly pointed on the other, anxious to change the subject and wondering what she really meant by her comment.

"Chopsticks!" she answered, taking them from him and splitting them. "I got us both the same thing, my favorite, since you've never had it before."

"All right."

They ate at her dining table, an old wooden table with one leg too short, and he thought about all the times before, at his house, when they'd sat across from each other over food, discussing the day's events or books. He had been to her flat a few times, to meet her before one of their excursions, but he'd never spent more than ten minutes inside.

In the moments of silence during the meal, though few and far between, he glanced around as much of the open flat as he could see from his chair. Most of the living room and kitchen were visible, as well as the front door and an insignificant portion of the hallway. Though the flat was very practical, neat, clean, it was also cozy and inviting. As though she didn't mind people dropping by without warning. He could tell that Ginny Potter had been there, as not a single wall was left white, though Hermione had obviously played a significant role in choosing the warm colors.

He could see her in everything. The calendar on her refrigerator was color-coded and the magnets arranged in a row based on color. When he'd been in the kitchen, it hadn't taken him long to notice that the cookbooks were arranged by cuisine ethnicity, and that she had the pudding books set apart. There was nothing out of place in her living room, the blanket she used to snuggle up with a book was folded on her sofa, two plush pillows resting on top. He pictured her sitting there, knees bent, a glass of wine on the coffee table and a fire roaring, completely caught up in the world being opened to her through her book.

At first, they theorized over the show they were about to see and Hermione tried to teach him to eat with the chopsticks. He failed miserably, finally Summoning a fork from the kitchen. Then she mentioned something about her job and he asked her to elaborate, and soon they were talking the way they used to, as though nothing had ever happened, the incident at the park had never occurred. The kiss … that, too, seemed forgotten, and he wasn't quite sure how he felt about it. He felt at home for the first time in months and when he thought of it that way, Ron's words about Pansy made perfect sense. He understood exactly why Ron, or anyone, would risk it all.

When they arrived at the London Dockland Arena, after walking from Diagon Alley, they handed their tickets to the woman at the door. She examined them briefly before ripping off a small portion and handing Draco the rest.

They went through the first door they found and showed the tickets to the man there. He glanced at them and then pointed. "First level, row seven."

Draco thanked him and they found their seats. The show turned out to be a Muggle sport, basketball, only it was no usual game.

"This is a show team," Hermione said, five minutes after the game started. She was reading the program Draco had purchased. "I thought this looked odd. My dad and I watched the Summer Olympics together one year, and basketball is one of the sports. Listen to this: 'The Harlem Globetrotters are an exhibition team that combines basketball with comedy. The Globetrotters' acts often feature incredible coordination and skillful handling of one or more basketballs, such as passing or juggling balls between players, balancing or spinning balls on their fingertips, and making unusual, difficult shots.'"

"Fascinating," Draco murmured, as one of the players performed an acrobatic shot and the crowd cheered when it went into the hoop. "Tell me more about basketball."

"Well," she began, straightening in her seat and folding her hands in her lap. "It's a sport played with a ball, and the players try to get it to go into their basket."

He waited for more, but when she peeked at him from the corner of her eye, he knew that was all he was going to get. He laughed. "So, not much, I take it."

"No," she said, laughing with him. "My father and I watched it, but I never bothered learning the rules."

"How is this game different from those you watched?" he asked.

"I'm pretty sure that the stunts aren't typical. The crowds on the telly never laughed, only cheered. I'm sorry I haven't got anything more to tell you."

"It's all right. If I want to know badly enough, I'll get a book on the subject."

"Oh? Are you purchasing books again?"

"Not quite. Nearly there, though; twenty-three remaining. By summer I should be finished." While they watched the game, unconcerned with the outcome but interested in the stunts, they fell into a comfortable conversation about what books they were currently reading. The discussion was punctuated now and again as they laughed at the players.

At halftime, after he had returned from the snack bar with chips, sausages and sodas, something occurred to him.

Hermione had just taken a bite of her sausage when he said, "How did you get into my house on Christmas?"

Her eyes widened and after quickly chewing and swallowing, she laughed. "Oh, Merlin, I'd forgotten! Of course you'd want to know!" She grabbed a napkin from him and dabbed the corner of her mouth, where he saw a smudge of mustard. "The wards. Well, you know, before, they were always book titles, and I started writing them down after a few weeks because I thought I saw a pattern."

Draco groaned.

"When you first gave me the code to get through your wards, it was a classic Russian authors, who I would later learn was your favorite. Every week or two, when you changed the code, I noticed you were going through his major works in alphabetical order. Next it was your favorite Welsh author, whom we had discussed. You were still on Victor Hugo the last time I'd been to your house, and fairly early in the alphabet, so …"

"You guessed," Draco said.

She shrugged. "It was an educated guess, at least."

"That makes it all better," he said, smiling at her. Then he continued. "Speaking of books, I just finished one I think you would like."

"Oh? Tell me."

The second half of the game passed more quickly than the first had. They brought each other up to date on which books they had read, those they liked and didn't, and when they came upon a book they'd both read, they discussed it through the end of the Globetrotters performance.

As they walked out of the arena toward the alley, Hermione chatting about a film she wanted him to see, he couldn't help but wonder, and not for the first time, what it might be like to be Fred Weasley. He doubted highly that they discussed literature and the arts, but he wanted to be not only on the receiving end of her smiles, but the cause of the happiness that instigated them.

After Apparating back to her flat, they stood in the hallway so Hermione could finish convincing him of why he should see the film. He nodded and tried to participate in the conversation, but her smile and the way her eyes were shining distracted him. Eventually she was finished, and she opened the door and stood in the frame; he remained outside. They stood that way for a few seconds.

"Coffee?" she said, biting her lip, a small smile on her face. Inviting him in.

Though he wanted nothing more than to spend more time with her, he knew he couldn't. They had passed a delightful evening together, but extending it might place it outside the realm of two friends spending time together. In addition, there was Fred. And … Draco refused to take even the slightest chance of messing anything up. He _wouldn't_.

"No. Thank you, though." Think of _Fred_, he repeated to himself.

She actually looked disappointed! Merlin, that did nothing to help his resolve. "Oh, okay."

"Goodnight, Hermione," he said, turning to leave.

"Draco?"

"Yes?" he said, stopping a few feet away from her door.

"This was nice. I'd forgotten how nice."

He nodded, afraid that if he spoke he'd say something he would later regret.

"I … I've missed you."

His heart thudded in his chest and thoughts of Fred vanished momentarily from his mind. He could reach her in two long strides, and … then what? No, he had to fight against the rash impulse to kiss her. It would only end with him backing off, or her pushing him away. A picture of a grinning Fred Weasley popped into his head once more.

"Me too," he said and continued toward the exit.

"Hey," she called, poking her head out the door. "Reckon it's my turn now."

He didn't look back but called over his shoulder. "Reckon so."

**ooo**

**End Notes: **Thank you for reading!


	8. Chapter 7

**Beta Credits**: A writer could not ask for a better team of betas. Endless thanks to manda, drcjsnider, and Buzzy.

**Disclaimer**: Harry Potter and his world belong to JK Rowling. I write to learn. No money is being made.

_Gravity__ is your mother's hand  
__Gravity__ is your father's voice  
__Gravity__ is your baby's heartbeat in his sleep  
__Gravity__ is visiting your birthplace defined as a race  
__Gravity__ is... tender memories of hard times  
__Gravity__ put the letters together in my rhyme  
__Gravity__... is all around  
__Gravity__... make we all get down, check it..._

_**-- Guest appearance by Mos Def on The Bush Babees album titled, "Gravity."**_

**ooo**

**Chapter 7**

Hermione started coming over again, though not as frequently as before, as Draco now had to share her with Fred. Every visit once again centered around his books, though he knew she enjoyed all of their time together just as much as he did. He returned to trying to stump her, creating harder, more intricate patterns to his organization, but no matter how hard he tried, she always figured it out. Sometimes it took her a while, days even, but she always figured it out.

Draco considered the possibility that his system was flawed. Given enough time, she could, in theory, discover any pattern he devised. She was meticulous in her investigation and kept very detailed notes about her discoveries. He started to wonder if he would ever be able to stump her, but he wasn't ready to give up trying.

In early April, on a bright, cloudless morning, Draco approached his cliff, broom in hand, determination on his face. A full year had passed since he began planning to jump, and it was time to move to a new stage. The time had come to jump without his broom.

He wasn't sure he could do it. All of the nerves in his body felt on fire as he hesitantly glanced over the edge of the cliff. The water was calm, the waves rather peaceful as they crashed against the rocks, their white caps shining in the morning sun. He couldn't have designed a better day for beginning phase two of his experiment.

Draco thought of Hermione and sighed, she didn't know of his obsession with the cliff, didn't know what he had been planning and practicing. He wasn't sure why he hadn't told her, possibly the most important person in his life, when he'd told Harry and Ron. He thought he knew what she would say. She would look at him skeptically and ask him why. That wasn't a question he wished to answer, and she wouldn't like that. After deliberating back and forth, she'd eventually huff and ask to go over his measurements and calculations with him. Then, when it finally came to it, she would shut her eyes and not watch. He smiled warmly at the thought.

Despite his misgivings in the past, Draco now believed that she cared for him. It hadn't required a monumental shift in his thinking, either. She just did. He didn't bother to consider in what way; he only knew it was hard to define.

The thought made his heart swell, and he set the broom on the ground and jumped before he could think of anything else. After two seconds, he Summoned his broom, and once he righted himself, he stopped falling in another half-second. Even though his intention was always to jump without his broom, he was proud of the fact that he had finally done it. The act put him in a contemplative mood, and he lay on his broom, flying lazily just above the surface of the water, letting his fingers trail through the water's surface.

Draco had never been in such a situation before, of feeling so much for one person and wanting her in his life in some capacity. He hadn't asked her to the show in February hoping that she'd break up with Fred and he couldn't give a name to the feelings of panic that welled in him when he thought about telling her how he felt, but his gut feeling said that it was more than simply being nervous about rejection.

Though he loved Hermione, he was secretly thankful for the barrier between them. Admitting his feelings for her to himself had been one thing. Seeking a relationship was something else completely, and he didn't think he was ready for it. The cushion that Fred provided allowed Draco time to think, to weigh, to plan, all the while knowing that Hermione was off limits.

Still, their friendship was something he treasured, and he was determined to stump her in his book arranging. He let his mind wander, running through scenarios and patterns. Then, suddenly, a thought occurred to him and he sat straight up on his broom … and then promptly fell off into the water.

_Merlin, _it was cold! He climbed back on his broom, shivering, and headed back to his house. He dried himself, but he was still chilled. It felt as though the water had been sucked beneath his skin and had gone all the way to his bones. Once inside, he brewed a pot of tea and when he stopped shivering, headed upstairs and set right to work.

**ooo**

Draco sent Hermione a formal invitation asking her to join him for dinner.

"_You are cordially invited to the home of Draco Malfoy, on April the fourth at four-thirty in the afternoon, for an evening of dinner, conversation, and failing to discern the pattern in my book room. Kindly R.S.V.P. at your earliest convenience."_

He smiled when he sent it off, attached to his owl's leg, and pictured her opening it. She would first be surprised to see his owl, as they very seldom communicated via owl post. Then she would frown at the fancy parchment and script, curiosity raging through her. She would quirk an eyebrow at his barb, and hastily scribble a snarky reply about how he would _never _stump her, he hadn't been able to come close yet, and she would arrive early, eager to prove him wrong.

At four on the appointed afternoon, there was a knock at his door.

"Hermione," he said, a smug grin on his face.

"Malfoy."

He knew her use of his surname no longer indicated that she was angry, only anxious to prove him wrong. He held open the door for her to enter, and she dropped her jacket and bag on the floor.

"Dinner will be served around seven. I'll call you when it's ready. I trust you are anxious to get started, so please, don't let me hold you back."

She looked at him, then smiled, and ran upstairs. "Thanks!" she called at some point as she raced toward the book room.

He chuckled, and went outside to tend his garden. It wasn't that he didn't want to be in the house _alone _with her; that didn't bother him anymore. He simply knew he'd have a hard time avoiding the book room, wanting to check on her progress, maybe tease her a bit. Had it really been just a year ago that he had wanted to be as far from her as possible? Now all he wanted was to be near her, to enjoy her company, her sharp wit and her mind-bending questions. .

Draco was pleased with their renewed friendship. Hermione seemed even more relaxed with him now than she had been originally. She didn't concern herself when she accidentally spilled wine on his rug, and made herself more at home, not waiting for him to offer food or drink. It pleased him immensely that she now felt at home with him.

Their conversations remained essentially the same, though they were never dull. They discussed his work, her research, various projects or things going on in the wizarding world, and as always, books. He relished the thrill he felt when they got into a heady conversation, because one of them inevitably played Devil's Advocate. They could talk for hours and barely notice the world moving around them.

When the sun dipped below the trees, Draco knew he should start dinner. He brushed the dirt from his hands and went inside to prepare a small but delicious feast. This was a special night, and he wanted it to be memorable—and not only for her. For starters, the day before he had made a thick, hearty soup of vegetables from his garden and let it sit all day, allowing the flavors to mingle and deepen. Next he would serve roast sirloin with Yorkshire pudding. Dessert would be a dark chocolate custard served with raspberry glaze.

At quarter to seven, Draco sent a folded paper message to Hermione, alerting her that dinner would soon be ready. She came down the stairs at precisely seven, frowning. Draco held out her chair and after she sat, pushed it in for her. She still hadn't acknowledged him and he smirked, knowing his arrangement was puzzling her.

He managed to pull her from her musings during dinner by talking about his week and asking questions about hers. That was the surest way he knew to get her talking, and it worked. After that, they discussed the most recent attempt by the Ministry to root out and deal with Dark wizards. Then, when she had only a few bites remaining on her plate, she changed the subject.

"I was supposed to go out with Fred tonight," she told him, not looking up. "He doesn't understand this … thing we do."

"Oh. You mean, with the books?" he asked, apprehensive about where she was going.

She nodded. "I told him I couldn't turn this down, and he got upset, asked why I couldn't just come over here tomorrow. I said I couldn't, that I'd been invited for tonight, and I didn't know what you were doing tomorrow."

"Tomorrow would have been fine," he said.

Hermione sighed and then looked him in the eye. "I don't think anyone understands me quite the way you do."

Draco swallowed hard, holding her gaze. He was thrilled to hear she had cancelled on Fred to spend time with him, and stunned at her confession.

Suddenly she stood and started gathering the dishes. "Can I help you wash up?"

"No," he said, forcing his thoughts to the present. "I don't recall that being in the list of things you would be doing tonight," he said, taking the dishes away from her and setting them in water. "You go on. I'll be up with dessert in a little while."

She looked at him, her eyes dancing with indecision, and then she smiled and thanked him, and headed back upstairs.

Once she was gone, he stopped washing and stared out the window. She hadn't told him anything he didn't know, but it was the first time she'd said anything like _that_, admitted that she knew there was a special connection between them. However, he didn't want to spend his time thinking about what-ifs. They were good at ignoring such things, and it would likely continue that way.

After finishing the dishes, Draco waited a few hours, until almost midnight, before taking two small plates up to the book room. He wanted her to be good and flustered by the time he brought up the dessert.

Hermione was sitting on the floor, her list and a quill in hand, surrounded by a stack of books, now spread out and divided into smaller stacks. She'd been about halfway around the room. Those stacks she'd already been through weren't returned to their previously tidy piles, but bunched up together in one corner of the room. There were also pieces of parchment crumpled into balls tossed here and there in another corner.

"How's it going?" he asked lightly.

She looked up, her eyes excited. "Well, I'm not sure. I might have something."

"Oh, good. Well, here's pudding." He handed her one of the plates, and, finding an open spot on the wall, sat down and leaned against it.

"Thanks," she said. "Oh, Draco, it looks incredible."

"I hope you like it," he said. He was very calm, keeping hidden the way he was nearly bursting with the anticipation of her figuring it out.

She took one bite and closed her eyes. "Oh, wow. This … is incredible. I've never had anything so amazing." She took another bite.

He chuckled. "Flattery will get you nowhere with me."

"I'm not trying to get you to tell me. Although I wouldn't complain if you dropped a few hints …" She smiled. "This is really good pudding. Thank you."

"I'm pleased you like it."

They ate in silence for a few minutes, and then Hermione set her empty plate on the floor and returned to the parchment she'd just been examining. Draco watched in silence as she went through a few more books, smiling through three, and then frowning at the fourth. He grinned. She ripped her parchment in half, balled it up, and threw it across the room, letting out a frustrated groan.

"Problem?" he asked, nonchalantly.

She glared at him. "This is impossible. I mean, I think I've got something, and then I move to the next stack, and a few books in, the whole thing falls apart. I've started completely over four times now, and—it's not making any sense. Those piles over there," she said, pointing across the room, "Are done by author's middle initial, but none of the rest of these books _have _author's middle initials. And those," she said, pointing again, "are done by _color_. You've never used color before, so I just don't even know where to begin."

"Huh," he said, watching her with amusement and taking his last bite of cake.

"It's almost as if …" She trailed off and then looked at him in surprise and disbelief.

He grinned, watching her closely as things finally fell into place.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You wouldn't."

"Wouldn't, what?" he said, innocently.

"You prat!" she cried, exasperation on her face. "There _is _no pattern is there?"

He shrugged.

She punched him in the arm, so hard that it hurt.

"Hey!" he said, rubbing the injured area. "I bruise easily!"

"There is no pattern," she groaned, dropping her head in her hands. "I've been sitting here for hours. I've been going through books, making notes, forming theories, tossing them out, for _hours, _and there's no pattern."

He smirked. "As promised on your invitation, I stumped you."

She threw her crumpled up pieces of parchment at him in rapid succession.

He ducked out of habit.

"Well?" she asked, glaring at him in a playful way. "Did I get it right?"

He nodded. "So, in a way, I didn't stump you."

"Yes you did. If you hadn't asked me about it, and I hadn't voiced my problems, then I wouldn't have put it together. I would have come to you, probably after staying up all night, and confessed that I couldn't work it out."

"I didn't want to keep you all night," he said considerately.

Hermione scooted back against the wall adjacent to the one where Draco was leaning. She gave him a defeated smile. "This … this took a lot of work. You deliberately putpatterns in some of the stacks to throw me off."

"I did. I had to; if all the stacks were randomly made, you would have picked up on it immediately."

She groaned. "Well, you did it. Congratulations."

"Are you upset?"

She looked at him and smiled, one of those brilliant ones that lit the room. "No. It's really quite funny."

He smiled, and stood, and collected their empty plates in one hand. "More custard?"

"Yes, please," she said, accepting his offered hand.

Draco tried to ignore the intense, wonderful sensations emanating from their joined hands, but it caused him to pull her up with a little too much gusto and she crashed into him, nearly sending them both to the floor. He grabbed her around the waist to keep her steady, and now they were inches from each other. He could see the flecks of gold in her eyes, feel the gentle pressure of her light breathing against his chest, smell a hint of chocolate, old books and something floral. It was _way _too close for comfort. They shouldn't be close like this. She knew it, he knew it. But she didn't try to back away, or push him off. She just kept looking at his mouth, her face marred with confusion, and his brain clouded, and he looked at _her _mouth, and—

Dropped the plates. They broke after hitting the hard, wood floor, making a huge noise. As though the contact burned, he let go of her and she jumped back in the same instant. He couldn't look at her, so he just stared at the jagged pieces on the floor. They reminded him of the sharp, jagged rocks that protruded from the water at the bottom of his cliff.

"I think I'll take a rain check," Hermione said, and hurriedly moved to the door.

"Yeah," he replied, bending down to pick up the pieces.

"You can just use your wand, you know."

"I know. Sometimes I like to do things by hand."

"You could cut yourself though."

He smiled. She couldn't resist trying to help, and it was nice to be reminded that she still cared, even after what almost happened. "I'll be careful. Night, Hermione," he said, taking extra time in picking up the plates, so he wouldn't have to turn around and look at her.

She sighed. "Night, Malfoy."

He bristled at her use of his surname, but soon she was descending the stairs, and then the door had opened and shut. He exhaled and sat down hard on the floor, dropping all the shards of plate, and put his head in his hands. He couldn't believe he had almost kissed her. He knew she had a boyfriend, but all thoughts had fled his mind as he had stared into her eyes. He never did that, never went after someone who was taken. If Hermione ever got so far as to want to marry the red-head, then Draco would probably say something to her, but now, they were only dating and he would _not_ interfere.

What was more, he couldn't believe she'd almost _let_ him kiss her. He didn't even want to think about what that meant, or he might become very impatient and do something he would regret even more than kissing her. She had the boyfriend, so he would simply have to wait that out before he would even think about any possible next steps.

He banged his head against the wall until it ached dully. Then he pulled out his wand and finished cleaning up the mess.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._ He scolded himself all the way down the stairs, through the house, and outside to the edge of the cliff. Then he tossed the shards over.

**ooo**

Draco spent the next two weeks trying to decide what to do and berating himself for his near-slip. He had gone after her, showing her that he wanted her friendship back. They'd been great for two months, and then he almost kissed her. She hadn't written to him or spoken to him since, but then, neither had he.

He was afraid he had crossed the line and scared her off, afraid that she would refuse to see him. He didn't want that possibility confirmed. At the end of a fortnight, he heard from her. She wrote to ask him to meet her for tea one afternoon that week in Diagon Alley. His stomach was in knots as he waited for her to arrive and it didn't improve once she had.

Tea was awkward, painfully so, for the first ten minutes. Neither of them really spoke, only offering sugar, cream, or biscuits. Then Hermione must have decided she'd had enough and started talking about her week. She went on without pause for another ten minutes, and Draco just sat there, still sure this was the last time he would see her. Then she asked him about his week, and he reluctantly responded with as much detail as he could, and they carried on a stilted conversation for another twenty minutes.

When they parted, Hermione said they should meet for tea again, and he agreed. They settled on the following week, at the same time and same location. When she left him standing on the sidewalk, he still expected her to turn around and tell him she never wanted to see him again.

**ooo**

On a Friday near the end of May, Draco was in Diagon Alley completing a list of errands before lunch. In the window of the junk shop, he saw a set of old ink bottles that looked quite valuable. He entered the shop to inquire about the bottles, and while he waited for the clerk to return, he decided to browse the merchandise.

Spring was blooming, couples were strolling through Diagon Alley, and he was grumpy. He set down a half-used bottle of broom polish and turned the corner of an aisle, which boasted a collection of Muggle artifacts. Draco scoffed at the assortment, but then his eye was caught by a rectangular object with buttons on it. The buttons were mostly numbers, but some were symbols. He was completely caught up in trying to figure out what the object was, and failed to notice someone approach him.

"Excuse me, are you Draco Malfoy?"

He jumped a little, startled, and turned around to see a woman looking at him. She had short, dark blond hair and green eyes.

"Yes," he replied, a bit impatiently, tossing the unknown device back onto its shelf.

"Hi," she said, boldly holding her hand out to him. "I'm Sarah Burke. I'm a Healer at St. Mungo's and I'd like to ask you something."

Draco glanced around the store, as though hoping for rescue from another customer, but found the place was empty save himself and Healer Burke. "Okay," he replied cautiously.

She took a deep breath and started speaking very fast. "Right. Well, I have a very sick patient who's only thirteen and her family can't afford the experimental medications she needs. Would you … consider paying for them?"

Draco was speechless. He tried to remember if a stranger had ever personally approached him asking for money before and couldn't think of a single occasion. He received letters on a regular basis, asking for money for various causes and charities, and had hired someone with the express responsibility of sorting through such requests, looking at the causes and charities, and deciding which would receive an affirmative letter from Malfoy, Inc.

Never before had he been asked while in the middle of his shopping. He looked at the witch more closely, then. She was pretty, a bit frazzled, and staring at him like he was the only thing keeping her from jumping off her own cliff.

"You're asking me to pay for what, exactly?"

"Medicine. It's like healing potions, only the Muggle version."

It was obviously going to be a long and detailed plea, and his stomach rumbled then, reminding him that his next stop was a café. "Why don't we get lunch and you can tell me more?" he said, giving her a patient smile. "I'm quite hungry myself."

She looked startled. "Oh, uhm, okay."

They went to the nearest café and sat outside. Draco refused to hear about the patient until they were finished eating. While they ate, he learned that Sarah was two years younger than he and had grown up in the United States. He learned she liked reading but didn't have much time for it, enjoyed Quidditch, having played on her school's team, had been near the top of her class, and president of all sorts of school clubs. She had moved to England with three friends on a whim six months before and had taken a job at St. Mungo's, where she spent nearly all of her waking hours.

"Tell me about your patient, then," said Draco when they were finished, setting his napkin on his plate and leaning back in his chair.

Sarah nodded and took a sip of water. "First, let me thank you for agreeing to at least listen to me. That's more than most people have done."

"It's no trouble," he said with a reassuring smile.

"The girl's name is Erin Andrews. She turned thirteen about four months ago, and attends Hogwarts. A few weeks after her birthday, she began displaying unusual symptoms. Teachers noticed that she had developed a tic, and that as the days passed, it grew more pronounced. Then it seemed that her limbs would act of their own accord, making sudden, random movements."

"What do you mean?" Draco asked.

"In Potions, for example, she was stirring her cauldron and then her arm flung away from her body, causing her to send a stream of her boiling potion over the classmates in her vicinity."

"I see," he said.

"Erin's body went into a rapid decline. Her systems started failing and her parents, both Muggles, removed her from Hogwarts about ten weeks ago. They took her to Muggle doctors, who agreed that something was very wrong, but they couldn't identify the cause. Finally, the Headmistress of the school suggested to her parents to try St. Mungo's. It took only two days to diagnose her. She has a form of neuropathy called Neuromagosis." Sarah paused. "Do you want the specifics?"

"Generals should do," Draco said.

"Essentially, whenever we move our arms and legs, and breathe, and when are heart beats or our stomachs digest food, a neurotransmitter is released, called acetylcholine."

"A what?"

Sarah smiled. "You said generals. Basically, a substance is released. All of our cells have what's called a plasma membrane, and on these membranes are special receptors that detect magical communication inside our bodies. It is the mechanism by which we can do magic. Is this too boring?"

"Not at all," said Draco. "Quite the contrary. Magical Mechanisms is not a subject in which I am well versed, though I suspect that will change soon."

"Oh?" she said.

Draco shrugged. "I read a lot. This is interesting. I'll probably do some reading on the subject."

"I see," said Sarah, surprised.

"Please, continue."

Sarah took another sip of water. "In Erin's condition, there's an extra mechanism on those cell receptors. When the acetylcholine binds with those receptors, her body performs the intended function—say, chopping a handful of nettles—and additional functions. Sometimes this can be relatively harmless; she might blink rapidly for a few seconds. Often times, however, it's much more severe."

"Like the time in Potions," Draco said.

"Exactly. These extra functions aren't limited to her arms, however. As the disease progresses, her internal organs are affected as well. Finally, control over her magic becomes lost, and the person affected becomes a danger not only to him or her self, but to others. We caught Erin's illness just before it reached the final stage, and put her into an induced coma."

"That's awful," said Draco.

"It is. It's a very rare condition among magical people, and all reported cases have been in Muggleborns. No one knows why, but there are plenty of theories."

"What is it you want from me?" asked Draco.

"There is no cure for this condition, and the usual treatment is largely ineffective. The witch or wizard is unable to live a normal magical life. Magic dampening fields are cast on the individual, and the person's movements are greatly restricted. However, there was an experimental treatment developed and tested in Australia that has shown great results. It's expensive, and Erin would have to take it for the rest of her life."

"What does the treatment do? How can it be effective?"

"It's a synthetic neurotransmitter that binds with the additional nerve on the magic receptors, effectively neutralizing it, making it so that when the acetylcholine binds with the receptors, there is no adverse reaction."

"Fascinating," said Draco. "How much is the treatment?"

Sarah bit her lip, a worried frown darkening her features. "It's expensive, as I said. It's about a five hundred pounds a month."

Draco blinked. "How much is that in our money?"

"Right at 100 Galleons," she said, then smiled sadly at his shocked expression. "I know. That's why I've been unable to get a sponsor for her. The treatment is extremely expensive, but because the condition is so rare, there isn't a lot of funding for research."

Draco made a mental note to look into the situation more closely, and not just Erin's, but all rare yet debilitating diseases in the wizarding world. Perhaps Hermione, with her extensive knowledge and experience in research, would be interested. He would ask her about it at their next tea. He thought about the 100 Galleons a month for the rest of the girl's life. While it was no pocket change, he certainly wouldn't miss it, either. It would be a small sacrifice that would possibly enable the girl to come out of her coma, recover, return to school and live a normal life.

Normally, Draco would require research—about the girl, her family, the disease, the medications—before he approved such a gift, but in this instance he found he was unconcerned with all of that. Perhaps it was due to the face that this woman had approached him out of the blue, instead of through the usual method of a letter, asking for help.

"I will do it," he said, sitting up.

Sarah's eyes and face lit up with excitement. Tears filled her eyes and she hastily blinked them away. "Really? You … you will?" she said, not quite believing him.

He smiled, warmth spreading through his entire body, reaching to the tips of his fingers and toes. He was used to being pleased, but this was a different kind of joy, one he had never experienced before, and as the minutes passed, it only grew. "Yes, really. I'd be happy to."

"Oh, Mr. Malfoy, thank you so much! I can't wait to tell her parents! Oh my," she wrung her hands, and smiled, radiating happiness. It was highly contagious, and Draco found himself smiling as well.

"Please, call me Draco," he said. "What happens now?"

"Well, would you like to meet her?"

He blinked. Did he? Doing so would take this to entirely different level, as he rarely had direct interaction with those his company provided with assistance. "That sounds … all right," he said finally.

"Lovely!" She pulled out a piece of parchment and a quill. "Here is my office information," she said while scribbling furiously. "Can you stop by tomorrow? Around noon? Her parents usually come by then."

"Sure," he said, accepting the parchment. He glanced at it, memorized the information, and put it into his pocket, feeling light, carefree, as though he'd just finished an especially vigorous broom flight.

"Oh, this is incredible. I'm so glad I managed to work up the nerve to talk to you! I thought for sure you'd tell me no on the spot, and then when you said we should talk over lunch, I still thought you were just stringing me along … Thank you."

"I'm happy to be able to help." And he meant it.

She stood and gathered her things. "I truly can't thank you enough. And I'm sorry, but I have to get back to work. I was on my lunch break, and I'm already late getting back." She looked at Draco, grinning, and said, "Tomorrow, then."

"Tomorrow."

Sarah didn't move away, she just continued to beam at him, and then without warning threw her arms around him. The hug was quick, but it still surprised him, and he stood awkwardly still, hoping it would be over soon.

When she pulled away, she was blushing. "I'm sorry. I'm just … so happy. Thank you again, Mr. Malfoy."

"It's Draco," he called as she walked away.

She looked back at him over her shoulder and waved.

Draco remained at the table for a long while, pondering what he'd just done and feeling a foreign sense of contentment settle around his heart.

**ooo**

When Draco woke the next morning, he felt ridiculously good, and as he got out of bed, there was a strange light feeling in his gut, his head and his heart.

At first, he hadn't recognized the feeling, but soon he remembered what had happened the day before. He smiled to himself. It hadn't been huge; he had agreed to pay for a girl's life-altering medicine. It wasn't the cure for the world's ills, the end of hunger, but it still felt … good. He had done something spontaneous that would benefit someone else. He'd never committed a random act of kindness before, had certainly never felt that selfless good feeling before, and he discovered that he _liked _the feeling.

Maybe he should do good things more often. His high spirits made him want to jump again. He went outside, not bothering to put on a shirt.

When he reached his jumping point on the edge of the cliff, he turned around toward the house and looked at his arm in the full sunlight. The tattoo was still there; it hadn't completely faded when the Dark Lord was killed. He hated it, but he needed it too. It served as a constant reminder of how fortunate he was, how much damage could be caused by hate. He never wanted to forget how it had nearly consumed him, how he had barely conquered it, and how the life he now led was due to his overcoming it. The Mark, ugly as it was, reminded him.

So he jumped, this time waiting longer than two seconds before Summoning his broom. Once he was safely hovering over the water, he grinned at the cliff, feeling as though he could fly to the moon.

**ooo**

Draco met Sarah in her office after a full morning of meetings. He was a private man, and only those who knew him best could read his eyes and know that the tight smile he sported was indication of thinly veiled excitement.

Sarah greeted him and then took him to see Erin and meet her parents. Since Erin was Muggleborn, and hadn't even known she was magical when a war had been waged all around them, neither of her parents knew who he was. It was a very surreal experience, meeting people who didn't flinch at his name or hesitantly shake his hand.

He and Sarah spent two hours talking to Erin's parents, and he had to assure them repeatedly that he would, indeed, provide the medication for the rest of the girl's life, or until a cure was found. After the Andrews left, Sarah and Draco returned to her office to start on the paperwork. Draco signed a form stating that he would fulfill his word. The bill for the treatment would be sent to him quarterly.

Once all the necessary paperwork was complete, Draco glanced at the clock on her desk. "Well, I must be going. I've got a meeting in half an hour."

"Oh, of course." Sarah collected all the forms and set them aside. "Draco, I was wondering," she said, avoiding his eyes, "if you would let me take you to dinner tonight. To thank you," she added hastily. "You've completely restored my faith in people, and I … just want to express my appreciation."

He hesitated, unsure of the way she got suddenly nervous and wouldn't look at him. It wouldn't be a date, he wouldn't lead her on. He remembered what Ron had said, about getting out more, and meeting 'eligible witches.' Here was the perfect opportunity, should he want it, to indulge in a bit of diversion, though he suspected it would be a futile attempt. "That sounds all right. As a thank you."

She nodded fervently, but Draco knew he would have to be very careful.

**ooo**

They had a very interesting dinner, during which Draco learned a few important things.

The first was that Sarah knew hardly anythingabout him. All she knew when she had followed him into the junk shop and then approached him was his name and that he was rich, having seen his name and picture in a gossip rag, next to an article full of speculation about who he was dating, if anyone. She knew nothingof his role in the war, and he was honestly surprised by the realization. She explained that in the States, there was very little information about the war in England, as the Americans had refused to enter the conflict. It made news when Voldemort was defeated, but only Harry Potter was really well known. She didn't even flinch when she said the Dark Lord's name.

Draco was amazed. He had thought—perhaps arrogantly so—that his family name, at least, was known everywhere, thanks to his father's support of Voldemort. The full reality of her ignorance hit him when he realized that Sarah didn't know he had been a Death Eater. She didn't even fully understand what a Death Eater was, other than a follower of the Dark Lord.

Throughout dinner, Draco considered whether or not to tell her the truth. He hadn't seen trust like that in anyone's eyes for a very long time. Though he was generally accepted in the wizarding world, most people still looked at him as though at any minute he would shout, "Fooled you!" and start hexing everyone in sight.

The second, and more important thing he discovered, was that Sarah could never fully understand who he was. She could never know the extent of all he had been through to get to where he was today, even if he could explain the complex tale of his life to this point. He also knew without a doubt that he couldn't pursue her with his heart a million miles away. Hermione already knew him and cared about him anyway. That was all he needed.

"I … have a bit of news," said Sarah, as she handed the waiter a handful of Galleons. He had tried to pay for the meal, but she had adamantly refused. "Erin's parents contacted the _Prophet_ about what you did and they spoke with me just before I came to meet you."

He suppressed a groan. "Perfect," he muttered, staring longingly at the empty glass of wine on the table. Apparently Sarah would be finding out the truth about him anyway.

"I'm not sure how the Andrews knew to contact them, but the reporter I spoke with seemed extremely interested in meeting with you, and I imagine someone will be contacting you tonight or early tomorrow. They agreed not to run the story until they'd obtained an interview with you. I think they want to show all sides of the issue and what you are doing."

"I see," he said more stiffly than he would have liked. Suddenly the room was very loud and far too warm. "Thank you for warning me."

"Is something wrong?" she asked, concerned.

Draco stood and helped her into her coat. "I generally prefer not to have my name in the public eye." He should have known that his 'good deed' would not go unnoticed, however; that sooner or later someone would have caught wind of it: a mediwitch, another Healer, the girl's friends. Eventually, word would have got out that he had been involved, at least this way it would be over quickly.

Draco could almost see the headline: "Malfoy helps Muggleborn!" He knew the papers would make a grand fuss over the fact of the girl's heritage. They'd lap it up, drink it in, absorb it, and squeeze it for all it was worth. He'd be in the limelight once again, and even though the cause of it this time was something he could be proud of, he still despised the attention. Surprisingly, the prospect didn't dampen his pleasure at helping the girl. He would simply avoid going out in public for the next month or so.

They parted cordially, and he agreed to stop by to see Erin once she woke up, provided there were no reporters.

He didn't want to go home, wasn't ready to go home, knowing what was probably waiting for him. If not a queue of reporters, then a flurry of owls bearing letters requesting his attention. Knowing how pesky the media could be, he suspected the owls would probably bite and claw until he responded to the missives they carried. He left Diagon Alley, found a Muggle pub, and decided he would get well and thoroughly sloshed.

A couple of drinks in, and he was telling the bartender about Hermione, how she was smart, and stimulating. The old man listened while he went on about the intellectual conversations they would have, the trips they would take, the books they would discuss, the meals they would share. A couple more drinks and he stopped talking and started thinking about touching her face, her hair, kissing her, and a variety of other pleasant nighttime activities.

However, the more he drank, the darker Draco's thoughts turned. If they were together, life wouldn't be just about good times, there would be bad times, too. Even though the last thing he would want to do was hurt her, he knew he would. He would make mistakes, snap at her, disappoint her, let her down … it was inevitable. Every relationship went through ups and downs, and he was bound to screw up, he felt it in his bones.

Draco was slouched over in a dark, corner booth, nursing his most drink, when the bartender told him the pub was closing; the clock on the wall read half past two. He paid his tab and stumbled onto the sidewalk, his thoughts muddled but still comprehendible.

When he took in the dark street on which he stood, he still wasn't ready to go home. The last thing he wanted to do was be ambushed by a reporter while intoxicated. Instead, he went to Pansy's "rental," knowing he had a fifty-fifty chance of being hexed for waking her.

She answered the door after exactly six and a half minutes of knocking, her hair matted on one side and sleep lines on her face. She squinted at him. "Draco?" she slurred, yawning.

"Pansy, you're looking lovely as always. How are you?" His voice was quite slurred.

She scowled, wrinkling her nose at the smell of alcohol. "I'm half-asleep, what do you expect? In or out?"

"In, please. Glad to know your acidic tongue is still sharp at this hour."

She let him in and he stood in the hallway, not sure what to do next.

"Come on," she said, annoyed. "In here. I hate this room." It was a side room, lavishly, and, he thought, hideously furnished. She must have kept this door closed during her Christmas party. "What do you want, Draco? It's nearly three in the morning."

He shrugged and sat down. "Where's Weasley?"

"He's sleeping, like most normal people at this hour."

Pansy didn't sit, indicating that she hoped he wouldn't be staying long. And now that he was there, he didn't know why it had seemed like such a good idea before. Must have been the alcohol talking. "Have you seen Hermione lately?" she asked, examining her fingernails.

Draco frowned. "No. I've had a very busy day and more business tonight."

Pansy arched an eyebrow. "Oh? What sort of business keeps you out to this hour?"

"Oh, well that ended earlier. I've been in a Muggle bar since. Awful stuff, vodka. I'm avoiding my house. What about her?"

"Who?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Hermione.

"It's nothing. I'm sure you'll see her soon."

"Uh-huh." He considered her for a moment, not liking the fact that Pansy was being so evasive. She was the one who had brought up Hermione, and now she wouldn't tell him why. "You said she was the only girl who'd have me."

"I remember." Pansy glanced at the door.

"I've been thinking. Are you sure?"

"Positive. You … you're … unique, Draco. With your strange habits, like … whatever you do with your books, and your freakishness. You work all the time, you're incredibly boring … it would drives me nuts, but not her."

"I think you're probably right."

"Oh?" Her eyes widened and for the first time she looked interested.

"Yeah. I realized that tonight. It really hit me, you know. She knows me. While that's all well and good, maybe … but I don't think it works both ways._I_ am not the only guy who would have _her_. I mean, she's so much more than me, any guy would be lucky to have her. She should have better than me. In fact, she does, right now, doesn't she? Fred Weasley is an upstanding chap who treats her well enough and probably makes her laugh. That's really important, that she laughs. You knowme, Pansy. Would it ever work? Could I evermake that work, ever be enough? Be the right thing?"

Pansy frowned and finally sat down, wrapping her night robes around her. "I don't know, honestly. Sometimes I think so, other times not. I think you could, if you really tried. I've seen you be so sweet to her, but the next minute … it's like you don't even acknowledge her."

He gaped at her. "What do you mean, I don't acknowledge her? I'm hyper aware of her, always know where she is in a room—"

"Yes, but Draco, she needs to know that. You don't let her see how you feel. If you were ever going to make it work, you'd have to really show her. None of this mysterious, back and forth stuff."

His temper was beginning to thin. "What am I supposed to have done? She has a boyfriend. And before that, I didn't know how I felt."

"I realize that, but you've got to understand something. She's probably a little scared."

"Scared? Of what?" he asked, incredulous.

"Well, you, for starters."

His blood went cold and he paled as images from his recent nightmares played through his mind. The worst thing imaginable was her being afraid of him, but how could he blame her? His worst fear of all, one he tried not to think about, was of his father's doing. Lucius had done the unthinkable, and Draco could never forgive him, nor could he stop himself from fearing that he could do the same thing.

"What's the matter?" Pansy asked, only mildly concerned. "Don't seem so surprised. I've known you my whole life, Draco. You're the most intimidating man I know. You're rich, you're good looking, and you're charming … what girl wouldn't be a little afraid? You could stomp on her heart and barely notice for all she knows!"

"I notice her!" he said, grateful that he had misunderstood Pansy's meaning of 'scared.'

"Well, _I _know that. Let's just say … I've heard that you haven't been all that encouraging. There wasn't a … spark, or something?"

No spark? Merlin, every moment in Hermione's presence had been one, gigantic spark. That, or a series of small ones that happened so frequently he couldn't tell where one ended and the next began. She hadn't felt it? At all?

His shoulders slumped. "Thanks. I'll be sure to come to you for these talks more often," he said sarcastically.

"I'm your friend, Draco. I'm trying to be honest."

"You don't think I could make it work. What more do I need to hear?"

"You _could, _Draco. It won't be easy, though, and it's not like you to do something that might be hard."

He scoffed. He'd left everything he knew behind when he switched sides, he thought that classified as hard. And he reminded her.

"Oh, well, besides that," she said. "That was life or death."

"And what is this? It's hardly as simple a thing as choosing between black and blue ink, you know."

"I know, Draco. I—give me a break, it's really late. I'm not used to being awake at this time, much less trying to console a friend."

"I didn't come here for consolation," he pouted. "I need to know if you think I could do it."

"Well, I don't know. I'd love to say yes. But in all honestly, I can't."

His mood was now far worse than it had been before. "Thanks, Pansy. Real help. No suggestions for improvement, no encouragement, no 'give it a try anyway.' Just, 'you're completely hopeless, Draco, you're scary and clueless.' Thanks a lot." He stood and stormed out of the room.

She caught up to him and grabbed his arm. "Come back tomorrow for lunch. I'll have a whole listfor you. Draco, please. I'm useless at this hour. You know that."

He muttered, "Maybe."

"Please. I'll be better in the daytime, I promise."

He sighed. "Thanks. I'll think about it."

**ooo**

Draco got home late. Very late. After leaving Pansy's, he considered looking for an open bar, but common sense told him it wouldn't solve anything. It was past three in the morning when he Apparated home, still not-quite-sober. He scowled when he saw that he had arrived a few hundred feet away from his house. He blamed the vodka. And Pansy.

After what felt like a very long period of time, Draco reached his front door. He had expected to see at least one owl, if not more, waiting for him, but since there were none, he surmised that he would be bombarded with correspondence the following day.

Opening the door, Draco removed his jacket with some difficulty and dropped it on the floor. He rubbed his head. It had been a long time since he'd been this drunk. As he shuffled further into the house, he started pulling at his clothes. He loosened his tie, undid the top button of his shirt, and his hands were on his belt buckle when he noticed a strange lump on his sofa.

Frowning, he slowly pivoted to face the piece of furniture that sat under the window of his front room. Not only was there a bushy-haired mass on his sofa, but there was a teacup on the floor near the end of the sofa where her feet were, and a book on the floor, open, pages down, where it had landed when the intruder fell asleep. For her part, Hermione was curled up, her knees drawn up, as though she was cold.

Draco stared at her for a few minutes, amazed. Not only had she broken his wards—again—but she was still there, on his sofa. She hadn't got too tired of waiting around and gone home, but had read until she literally couldn't keep her eyes open. Very cautiously, as though the sound of even his breathing would wake her, he crept toward the sofa until her face came into view. Then he froze, mesmerized. He'd never seen anything or anyone so captivating.

An owl hooted outside. He jumped and Hermione stirred. The spell broken, Draco quietly left the room and Transfigured two kitchen towels into a blanket and pillow. He gently covered her with the blanket, making sure all of her was snug underneath. When he turned back toward her head to address the pillow, he saw that she was looking at him.

"Hey," she said sleepily, rubbing her eyes.

"Hi," he returned in a whisper. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

"Waiting for you."

"It's three in the morning!"

She snuggled deeper in the blanket and yawned. "Where have you been? And why are we whispering?" She almost sounded like she was drunk too, but maybe it was just being woken up in the middle of the night.

He ignored her questions. "How long have you been here?" he asked, crouching beside the sofa at her eye level.

She shrugged, and then she scrunched her nose and frowned. "Have you been drinking?"

He grimaced. "Well?"

"Well what?" she asked, yawning again.

"What did you want to see me about?"

"I don't remember. It can wait."

Draco shifted his weight. "Are you going home, then? Or staying?"

That seemed to break through her sleepy haze and she glanced around the room as though she had forgotten where she was. Then she sat up, tossed the blanket off and tried to stand. She made to walk to the door but stumbled on the way.

Draco steadied her. "You're in no condition to Apparate, that's for sure," he muttered, leading her back to the sofa.

"Hey," she said, trying to pull her arm free of Draco's grasp. "The _sofa_? I really should get a bed, don't you think?"

He gritted his teeth. "You've been here enough to know that there's only one bed, and it's mine."

"Oh, that's nice," she said grumpily.

Draco signed heavily and swept her up in his arms, crossing the room in two strides and starting up the stairs.

"I thought I was getting the sofa," she said with a yawn, wrapping an arm around his neck and resting her head on his chest.

He didn't say anything, just carried her to his room, the smell of her and the feeling of her leaning against him sending his heart racing. He felt immensely uncomfortable. Usually a man only carried a woman to his room for one reason. Draco over-compensated for his internal struggle and tossed her unceremoniously onto his bed, then quickly retreated to the door. When he saw her melt onto his bed and instantly fall asleep, he couldn't help but smile

**ooo**

It took him a few minutes to remember why he woke up to see "Twist" colored walls instead of icy blue. Then he remembered that Hermione was in his bed. The thought sent a painful surge through his head and he squinted, which slightly improved the raging headache. He vowed to never drink Muggle liquor again.

Draco slowly rose from the sofa, his back and neck sore, and stumbled into the kitchen trying to push the light away from his eyes. He found the sober-up potion and downed three tablespoons, then waited for the room to stop spinning.

When it did, he checked the time: eight-forty-seven. Far too early, especially considering he had only slept for five hours. Now that it didn't make his head pound, he wondered about Hermione. It couldn't have been coincidence that Pansy had asked him if he'd seen her and then he found her asleep on his sofa. Part of him wanted to go upstairs, wake her and … well, no, he really shouldn't follow that line of thought.

He couldn't imagine what had been so important or urgent that she had let herself into his house, made herself at home, and then fallen asleep. People didn't behave that way under normal circumstances. Not even extraordinary people, like Hermione.

As there was nothing else he could do but speculate until he went mad, he started making breakfast—for two. It felt strange. He had imagined doing it many times, but to actually be standing over the range, thinking about what someone else might want to eat, what _she _might want to eat, was something else.

She came down just as he was finishing and he looked up when she walked in. He nearly burned himself on a very hot pan because she was wearing his robe. It was his favorite robe, the one thing from his school days he hadn't burned. His mother had commissioned it at Twilfoot and Tattings. It was a dark, almost-black green with the Slytherin crest on one pocket and warm flannel inside.

There was no way she could know that it was his favorite, and he stared at her as she smiled at him warmly, then went to the coffee pot and poured herself a cup. She sat at the table and started reading the _Prophet_, as though there was nothing strange about it at all. As though she woke up in his bed and ate breakfast with him every day.

"Morning," she said, almost as an afterthought.

He turned to stare at the soon-to-be-burned sausage in front of him and quickly returned his attention to breakfast. But every few minutes he heard the sound of the newspaper page turning.

When breakfast was ready, he put it on the table and sat down next to her.

"Did you see this about the Ministry's new policy regarding underage use of magic?" she asked without taking her eyes off the article.

"Erm … yes, I did."

"Never thought they'd go that route."

"No …" He trailed off, still watching her intently and unable to eat. "So, about last night …"

"Let's talk about it later, okay?"

He nodded. She ate while reading the paper, occasionally mentioning something of interest. He would only mumble an acknowledgement, but she didn't seem to notice.

"I'll do the dishes," she offered when she was finished. "Oh, you didn't eat."

"Not too hungry," he said.

"I'll put it up for you, for later."

He nodded and went into the living room, unable to do anything but stare at the wall.

Eventually, she joined him on the sofa, bringing him a cup of coffee. He accepted it warily.

"So where were you last night?" she asked, taking a sip of her own cup. "I came by around seven. Oddly, there were a lot of owls hovering about, and more came as the evening lengthened. I took the letters … they're in the other room. Most were stamped 'urgent.'"

He waved off her mention of the mail. "I was … out. I had business." He shifted in his seat, dreading opening the letters that awaited him. "What did you want to talk to me about that led you to break into my home, pinch a teabag, and then fall asleep on my sofa?"

She shrugged and pointedly looked away, taking a sip of her coffee. "Nothing. I don't know." A pause. "I saw you two days ago is all, and, well. I was curious."

He was completely confused. He'd seen her three days ago, on Thursday, for tea, as usual. "What do you mean, you saw me?"

"In Diagon Alley. With that woman."

Draco's brow furrowed even more. "What woman?"

"The blonde one. With the green shirt. Pretty."

He shook his head, trying to remember two days ago, which would have been Friday … Oh. Sarah. He exhaled in relief. "Oh, right. I remember."

Hermione took another long drink from her mug and asked, "Who was she?"

"Her name is Sarah and she's a Healer at St. Mungo's."

Now Hermione's eyes widened. "Oh. I see," she said, an odd tone to her voice.

"Why didn't you come over and say something?" Draco was getting a distinct vibe from Hermione, though he couldn't pick up on it. She was behaving normally, but he couldn't help but feel that she wasn't happy with him.

"I was walking through Diagon Alley with Ginny. We were shopping for baby things, and we passed the café, and saw you sitting together, outside. It looked like you were having an intense conversation."

"Oh." He wasn't sure what to say, or what to do, and was only thankful she hadn't seen him with Sarah, in her red dress, the previous night. It had meant nothing to him, but the way Hermione was talking, he was thankful nonetheless.

"Well?" she asked.

"Well, what? It was nothing."

"Didn't look like nothing. I could see the way she looked at you, even though I was across the street. Ginny agreed with me."

"I assure you there's a very good explanation for it …"

"It doesn't matter, I was simply curious," she said, withdrawing from him.

The way she was acting reminded him eerily of the Amusement Park Incident and he was wary of where she was going.

"I didn't know you were dating anyone and neither did Ginny. I suppose I thought that of anyone, you might have told me." She still wouldn't meet his eyes.

"I'm not dating her," he said.

"You're not?" Now she looked at him, her eyes full of surprise and something else.

Relief coursed through him. "No. I just met her two days ago, just before we were at that café, actually. I've been meaning to talk to you about it, but figured it could wait until next week."

"I broke up with Fred," she blurted, setting her mug on the floor.

At that moment, his brain shut down. It had already been nearing the point of melt-down, with making breakfast for two, her wearing his robe, bringing him coffee.

"What?" was all he could say before she kissed him.

He had pictured kissing her plenty of times, in a variety of settings, especially after their mistletoe kiss, which didn't really count since it had been necessary in order to be freed from the spell. He was, after all, only human, and he loved her. When it became impossible to keep such thoughts away, he let himself think about it as much as he wanted, because he knew that, barring any spells or hexes that required it, he would never actually doit. The occasion where he almost had, and then hadn't, proved it to him. He had therefore allowed himself free reign to think about kissing her. He had never, in all his musings, thought that _she _might kiss _him. _

Even if his brain hadn't malfunctioned on hearing that she'd broken up with Fred, it still would have turned into a puddle of goo in the base of his skull now that her lips were on his. All he could think was that he had his arms wrapped around her and his hands in her hair and he was probably dead because never in his life had he felt so incredible or ever thought such feelings were possible.

He kissed her back; he wasn't stupid. She may have kissed him, but it wasn't long before he was pouring his heart into the kiss, nibbling on her lips and then dancing within the sweet expanse of her mouth. She leaned into him, kissing him just as passionately as he was her, melding his unquenchable desire with her own.

Much to his annoyance, his brain chose that moment to coalesce, and began with gentle warning taps that grew to shouts, demanding his attention.

Suddenly things started popping in his mind like firecrackers. She'd broken up with Fred, and was now snogging him, quite enthusiastically, on his sofa. She was wearing his _robe!_ Images started parading through his head. Holding hands and walking through the airport to watch the planes; huddling in front of a fire together, holding mugs of steaming hot chocolate; sitting at a table, reading the paper, and eating breakfast; him, grinning at her as though she were the only thing in all the world, and her, in a white dress…

This could happen. She was telling him that she wanted it, that she wanted _him_. She'd broken up with Fred… And then, all of a sudden, a wave of dread slammed into his chest and he opened his eyes. Somehow the top two buttons of his shirt were unbuttoned and her hands were on the third.

He abruptly stopped kissing her and she opened her eyes. She was smiling at him, her eyes positively blinding they were so brilliant. "Too fast?"

Only he wasn't smiling. He was wide-eyed and felt as though the room were closing in around him. He made to sit up and she scrambled off him, sitting back, leaving a few inches between them. He was breathing hard and she was too. He didn't know what to say, only that whenever he thought about speaking, his heart pounded harder and he felt nearly sick.

It felt like eternity was passing very slowly…

"Sorry," Hermione mumbled, talking to her lap.

He suddenly felt like the biggest git on the planet. He'd panicked, and now what was he supposed to do? The idea—the real, honest, this-is-the-moment idea—terrified him. He'd never been good enough for her, and he would never be, could never give her everything he so desperately wanted her to have. Pansy had told him last night that she wasn't sure he could make it work, and Lucius … Bugger! Even though he had thought about it, dreamed about it, it had never _mattered_before. And now…

"No, don't say that," he said, wishing he could Vanish the sadness from her eyes.

The truth of the matter was, he was scared. More scared than he'd ever been in his life at the very _thought_ of being with Hermione. Because… she'd be able to _see_. She knew him, yes, better than anyone, but there were still things she didn't know. All the things he had managed to hide from her, he wouldn't be able to if they were together. The darkness that plagued him, the night terrors… In this moment, he was certain that Pansy had been wrong, and there _wasn't_ a woman in the entire world who could ever really love him.

Hermione couldn't, not really…

She shook her head, drawing his attention. "Then … what?" she asked, looking at him.

He was reminded of one of the many reasons he cared so much for her when he saw the strength in her fiery eyes. "Hermione," he started, and then realized he didn't know what to say. His stomach was twisting and spinning and diving and he didn't think it would ever end. It was far worse than the roller coaster, even after eight rides, worse than the fear and anticipation before he jumped off the cliff. Every breath he took felt like drawing his fingers across a chalkboard. "Say something," he croaked.

"Like what?" she asked.

"I don't know, just … something. Please."

"What do you want me to say, Draco? I think it's pretty obvious." She shook her head. "So many mixed signals, and I should have gone with my gut when it told me you didn't feel anything for me."

How could she think that after their kiss? It had been so incredible, so transcendent, so … mind-scrambling that he was fairly certain his brain had been rewired. Was it possible it hadn't been the same for her?

"I don't know what you mean," he said, frustrated.

"All those months, Draco!" she cried, wringing her hands in his robe. "I … I wasn't sure! I waited, I watched, I hated myself sometimes for being so weak as to crave even one small nice word from you! I've only been a friend to you all this time and I thought … after … when you stumped me, that maybe I'd been wrong, that maybe you did see me as something different, but you never even wrote, never came to see me."

He wasn't breathing and he felt faint. "You were with Fred," he said limply.

"I had hoped you might fight for me!" she said. "When it became clear that wasn't going to happen, I finally contacted you, pathetically, because I missed you so much. When I saw you with that other woman, I nearly lost it. It wasn't fair to Fred—I'd only been trying desperately to get over you—so I broke up with him and came here, last night, because I had to know, Draco, I had to. I can't stand feeling so insignificant to you." She was whispering, tears in her eyes, when she stopped.

"You aren't," he choked out, feeling like the wind had been knocked out of him. "You aren't insignificant to me."

She bit her lip, searching his eyes desperately. "But am I significant? Do I mean anything special to you at all?"

"You have no idea. It's like you alone have the ability to really _see_ me." He was whispering too, his entire body one giant knot that kept tightening with every moment that passed.

"Then what?" she asked, her confusion evident. "I don't understand."

What could he possibly tell her that wouldn't ruin their entire relationship? He studied the sofa cushion where her shoulder was resting, his eyes tracing the pattern of the fabric. Merlin, he was still a coward. "I … I would have to say that I am not always as I seem to be. There is a part of me that I can't—won't share with you. I'm not sure I can be what you want. Or need. Especially need."

"And you would know that, how?" she asked, her tone laced with anger.

"You should have a man who can give you all of himself. Not pieces. Which is all I am. I'm not a whole person, Hermione."

Her face became so tender that he thought he could hear his heart break. "Of course you are, don't be ridiculous."

He shook his head. "I know it might seem that way, I don't let it show, but—"

"If you don't like me, then just say it," she said.

"No, it's not that at all, you must believe me. I can't even begin to describe the insane jealousy that gripped me whenever you mentioned Fred Weasley." He scowled deeply.

"Then why did you never say anything? What makes you think I'm incapable of handling whatever side of you that you haven't shown me yet?"

His eyes widened at her questions. "I couldn't! And it's not that I think you incapable of anything, but, I … suppose it sounds silly to you, but I want to shield you from that, from the pieces of my past that still haunt me." Hesitantly, he reached a hand up to touch her hair. "Please don't think this has anything to do with you. It's all me, I swear to you."

"I know all about your past, Draco, and I went through a horrible war, just like you. I doubt there's anything you could say that would scare me off."

He grimaced. "Don't be so sure."

"I don't care about what you've done, you've more than proven that you aren't the same man anymore. If you'd just—"

"This isn't about what I've done!" he cried, backing away from her. "I know what I've done, and you've long forgiven me all those things. But … I've been slowly getting to where I am right now, and this … today, is so sudden, I'm not ready for it. The possibility, the idea of you, was nebulous for a long time, and then once I realized the depth of my feelings… I thought about it, sure, but now I'm suddenly faced with it, and …"

"Too soon?" she repeated, one corner of her pretty lips turned up in a smile.

"Maybe," he said, taking her hand and nearly losing himself in the sweet tingles that ignited where his skin touched hers. "One thing I'm positive about, Hermione. You deserve the absolute best that a man can give, and until I can promise you that, I won't be able to give you anything."

She nodded, absently rubbing her thumb on his palm, which sent waves of thrill through his entire body. "Okay," she whispered, the tears finally escaping their confinement and falling down her cheeks, to her chin, and finally through the air onto her lap. "I … I'm glad we finally talked about this … thing between us. You aren't saying no, just not right now."

"Yes."

"But you have no idea when, if ever."

"Right."

She pulled her hand away then, and he desperately wanted to clench down and keep her close to him. The separation was almost physically painful. He watched in stunned silence as she stood up and gave him a brave smile, and then walked out his door. He heard the _pop!_ of her departure and thought his chest might cave in and crush his heart.

His mind was telling him that he'd done the right thing, that he wasn't ready to give her what she needed, but his heart was aching. Moments ago, she had been in his arms and now he felt emptier than ever before. Even though he was truly terrified of not being enough for her, of letting her down, of dragging her into the darkness, he couldn't help but feel as though he'd also made the biggest mistake of his life.

**ooo**

**End Notes**: Thanks as always for reading! I hope you're still enjoying this story:)


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter Title**: Eight  
**Progress**: WIP; 8/9  
**Words**: 10,055  
**Beta Credits**: A writer could not ask for a better team of betas. Endless thanks to manda, drcjsnider, and Buzzy.  
**Art Credits**: The beautiful banner was made by the incredible moonjameskitten.  
**Disclaimer**: Harry Potter and his world belong to JK Rowling. I write to learn. No money is being made.

**Chapter 8**

Hermione hadn't been gone for ten minutes when a flock of owls began bombarding Draco's windows. Every single letter requested, if not demanded, an interview with him about Erin Andrews. Judging by the sheer volume of letters, Draco thought every reporter at the _Prophet_ had written him, in addition to several people from wizarding magazines.

The last thing Draco wanted to do was sit in front of a stranger and answer questions about what he had done, and, more specifically, why he had done it. No doubt whatever answers he gave would be analyzed from as many angles as they could think up, and certainly his motives would be questioned.

However, the thought of a reporter showing up at his office the following day was horrific, so he quickly showered, dressed, and randomly selected one of the letters. Virginia Merriweather, of the _Daily Prophet_, had unwittingly secured an exclusive interview.

The article based on his interview was broken into parts, with the first piece published the following day, including a large, full-color, moving picture that alternated from him in Death Eater regalia to him in jeans and a T-shirt in Diagon Alley, smiling at something off camera. He lost his appetite for breakfast upon seeing it and had no desire to read the attached story.

He'd barely finished washing the breakfast dishes when someone knocked on the door. As he dried his hands, Draco placed a bet with himself as to who it was. He doubted Hermione would come alone, but maybe with someone, and he wouldn't put it past the entire Weasley clan to show up again. Surely Harry or Hermione would have talked them out of such an idea, knowing how much he would hate all the attention. As he turned the knob and opened his door, Draco at last settled on his visitors being Harry and Ron. He was silently pleased with his own accuracy.

"Morning," he quipped with false cheerfulness. "What brings you two out on this fine morning? Come to help me weed?"

Harry and Ron, familiar with Draco's sarcasm, ignored his comments and lumbered through the door with a quick greeting. They sat on his sofa, while Draco chose to stand, leaning against the entryway, and staring out the window. He knew why they were there, and they had to know that he knew. The air was thick with anticipation.

Finally Harry spoke. "We, er, saw the paper this morning."

"Is it true?" Ron added quickly.

Draco rolled his eyes. "What, you don't trust the _Prophet_ to always print the truth?" Then he sighed and sank into an armchair. "Yes, it's true. Merlin, I hate the attention."

"Did you read what they're saying about you?" Harry asked.

"No, and I'd rather not," he grumbled, giving his friend a pointed look. "I can guess well enough. Some good things, some bad things, a dab of speculation here and there, toss in my father's name for good measure. That about right?"

"Nearly," said Ron. "Mum got all emotional reading the girl's story. She wanted to come right over and hug you, but Harry told her it would be best to wait."

"Thanks, mate," Draco said, nodding gratefully to Harry.

"I don't think that'll hold them off for long, I'm afraid. Ginny got a bit teary as well, but then she's extremely emotional anyway these days."

"Right. Not too long now, is it?" Draco inquired.

"Month and a half," said Harry, grinning ear to ear.

"Let's focus, shall we?" said Ron. "We don't want to grill you or anything, but we are curious. Who is this woman, Sarah, and why haven't you mentioned her?"

Draco was surprised. "Isn't there something in the article about her?"

"A bit," Harry supplied. "They mentioned that she's a Healer at St. Mungo's, the one working with the girl, but they're running a full story on her tomorrow. Today it was mostly about you."

Draco scowled. "Lovely," he muttered. "She'd better get just as much attention than me tomorrow, if not more. She's the one who has been working with Erin and her family for months."

Harry continued. "Well, I don't think she'll be suffering from a lack of attention. The interview with you … well, there was a bit of speculation that the two of you were involved."

Draco scoffed. "I met her three days ago. We're certainly not involved."

Harry and Ron exchanged a glance. Then Ron said, "A few people said they saw you two Saturday night, at dinner."

Bugger. "And who have you been discussing this with?" he asked.

"I tried to talk to Hermione this morning, but she wouldn't answer her door. Or her Floo. So, it's just been me and the Weasleys," said Harry.

Brilliant. No doubt the article mentioned the shape and cut of Sarah's dress and twisted everything the witnesses had seen into something it wasn't. "I met her Friday afternoon. It has been a long and full weekend. We had dinner Saturday night, but it meant nothing. She wanted to thank me for helping the Andrews."

"Well, you should know that's not what they're saying," Ron remarked.

"I don't care what they're saying," said Draco angrily. "They'll say anything to sell a story, or even one more issue. I am not seeing Sarah, and I have no intention of seeing her."

"We believe you," Harry assured him. "I did wonder, considering what you told me after Pansy's party …"

"What?" said Ron, frowning. "What did you tell Harry? Why didn't you tell me?"

Draco shut his eyes and groaned.

"Ron doesn't know?" Harry asked, confused.

"No, Ron doesn't know!" insisted Ron. "Tell Ron!"

Draco made no response, just shrugged, his eyes still closed.

"He loves Hermione."

"I knew it!" shouted Ron, almost jumping out of his seat. "I mean, not that you love Hermione, but I knew there had to be a reason you never dated! Not because you aren't attracted to women, not because they weren't interested in you." He clapped his hands together, clearly unsure of what to do with them. "You great tosser, why didn't you tell me?"

"It's not exactly my favorite conversation topic," Draco replied quietly. "It's highly complicated and I don't want you talking to her about it."

"Oh, sure thing," said Ron, grinning. "I won't tell her. When are you going to ask her out? She's broken up with Fred, you know. Now's your chance, mate!"

"Ron, give him a minute to breathe!" said Harry.

Draco sent him an appreciative look. "I'm perfectly capable of dealing with … this on my own, Ron, thank you. All I need from you is to keep your mouth shut around her."

Harry stood abruptly. "We should go. You've got a lot going on, and I doubt that's going to change any time soon. The interview is supposed to be in the paper for the next three days. Tomorrow they'll run a story on Sarah and the girl's parents." He hesitated. "They're really harping on about the parents being Muggles."

"I imagined they would," Draco muttered. "The witch who interviewed me could barely say a full sentence without mentioning that fact, so I am not terribly surprised. This was my first public act of benevolence directed toward a Muggleborn."

"Want us to say anything to Hermione for you?" asked Ron, following Harry's lead and standing.

"No, absolutely nothing." Draco stood, giving his friends a severe look. "She knows better than to believe everything she reads in the paper." At least, he hoped she did. "I know you want to help, but you should leave it to me."

"You sure?" Ron asked.

"Positive."

Over the next three days the rest of the interview was published. As he'd anticipated, every answer he'd given was taken apart, put under a microscope, and analyzed _ad nauseum_, and everything he had done in the war, both good and bad, was dredged up and scrutinized again. At least, that's what Harry told him when he visited Draco later in the week. Draco still refused to read a word of it.

**ooo**

Long days were spent at the office as Draco was involved in merger negotiations between two of Malfoy Industry's business partners, and he was lucky to get home while it was still daylight. Sarah kept him informed of Erin's progress by way of regular letters. She and the other Healers now involved in the experimental case wanted to give the medication time to begin working before slowly drawing Erin out of the coma. As such, she wasn't going to be woken until two weeks after the first dose of the experimental medication was administered.

The media was following the story very closely. There were always reporters mulling about the hospital, looking for a new angle or change in Erin's condition. Sarah and the hospital's administrators were willing, almost eager, to speak with them on a daily basis. As the days passed, Draco continued to receive inquiries from reporters, hoping to get a statement from him.

Draco didn't understand why the media was so interested in him, in particular. The story had been run; what further use was he to them?

Sarah's last letter, sent two days before Erin was to be woken, was just as cool as her previous letters had been. She wasn't unfriendly, but professionally distant. He couldn't blame her, after what the papers had said about him. Without doubt, she was no longer uncertain about what it meant to be a Death Eater. He did not regret choosing not to tell her that evening at dinner, but he wished she could have found out in another way.

In the letter, Sarah told him what time they planned to draw her out of the coma and that the Andrews still wanted him to be there. She mentioned that there would be reporters. She had tried to have them confined to a specific area, but the administrators were adamant that they be allowed outside the girl's room. She hoped he would come, regardless.

Draco sighed at the thought of trying to avoid the relentless gossip mongers, but not even they could keep him away. He had made a promise, and he would keep it, no matter what. After Sarah's letter, Draco cleared his afternoon schedule for the day Erin was to wake up. He arrived at the hospital after lunch to discover the lobby full of flowers, flying banners with 'best wishes' on them, and other gifts. Curious, Draco inquired of the witch behind the counter.

"They're all for the Andrews," she replied. "The Healers don't want anything in the girl's room though, so we thought to bring everything down here. Lighten up the lobby a bit. Isn't it cheerful?"

Draco nodded his assent and then headed for the lift.

When the doors opened on Erin's floor, a horde of reporters turned their heads as one. He really shouldn't have been so surprised, as there had been daily articles about some aspect of the girl's situation in the paper, but he hadn't expected there to be so many of them. They crowded the hall, quills and cameras at the ready.

A second passed in silence as they stared at each other, then all of the reporters started speaking at once. They rushed forward, crowding around him and peppering him with questions he had no intention of answering as he walked to Erin's room.

"Oh, Draco! You're here!" said Sarah, poking her head into the hallway at the disturbance.

He quickened his pace and slipped into the room, the media personnel still begging for a word. When the door clicked shut between them, he smiled at the blissful quiet.

"Good," said Sarah, giving him a warm smile. "We can get started."

Draco glanced around the room and saw, in addition to Sarah and the Andrews, four other Healers. The symbols on their robes indicated that they were in research. They were standing in a row on one side of the room and he got the impression they were anxious to begin the procedure.

Draco stayed where he was, just inside the door. The Andrews sat on one side of Erin's bed, holding hands and talking quietly.

"Ready?" Sarah asked, addressing everyone in the room.

After a chorus of assents, Sarah poured a measure of the medication and went to Erin. She opened the girl's mouth, carefully poured in the potion, and with a muttered spell, forced the girl to swallow. "Now to pull her out," she said, placing the tip of her wand on Erin's temple. She muttered a spell and orange wisps of magic danced around the contact point.

Draco found himself holding his breath, just as he realized everyone else in the room must be doing. He had been told that bringing someone out of a coma carried a small risk. After what felt like an eternity, Erin's eyes fluttered open. Her parents were elated and took turns hugging their daughter, who was still very groggy and disoriented.

"You can have a few minutes with her, Mr. and Mrs. Andrews," said Sarah, "and then we need to run a few tests to be sure the medication has taken effect." She looked to the other four Healers, who hadn't moved or spoken since Draco had entered.

Mrs. Andrews nodded fervently. "Of course."

"Thank you for coming," Sarah whispered to Draco.

"I said I would," he replied.

"I know," she said with a smile. "But I half-expected you to back out."

"Healer Burke?" called one of the other Healers.

Sarah nodded. "Mr. and Mrs. Andrews, we need to begin the exam."

They both hugged Erin one more time and then moved their chairs to the edge of the room as the other Healers stepped up to the bed to begin their tests.

Sarah told Draco to wait with Erin's parents, and then drew the curtain around the bed. All he could hear was Sarah's soft voice, speaking to Erin as she went about her task. After a few minutes, Sarah emerged from behind the curtain.

Her smile was huge. "She's going to be fine."

The Andrews gasped and hugged each other, then thanked Sarah profusely.

"You're very welcome. My colleagues are going to draw a few labs now. Since this is such a historic case, we want to learn as much as we can." Sarah pulled out a sheet of parchment and a quill. "We just need your permission," she said.

Mr. Andrews signed the form.

"They'll be finished in a few minutes, and then you can see her." Sarah pulled Draco aside. "We don't need to be here for this. Would you like to get a cup of tea while we wait?"

"Sure," he said, thinking about the throng of reporters outside the room. The beverage would probably do his nerves good. Draco followed Sarah's lead through the door. Instantly, the hallway was filled with the noise of people speaking at once, trying to be heard over everyone else who was attempting the same feat. Draco scowled, but Sarah quieted them with a motion of her hand.

"That's better," she said with a smile, once the crowd was silent. "Erin was successfully taken out of the coma. The Healers are currently performing tests that will let us know how the medication is working. No one is permitted in the room until such time as the Andrews wish to allow it, and the wards will remain in effect around this room. We will not be taking formal questions at this time. That is all."

The reporters moved away without complaint, some leaving the scene altogether. Once she was finished, Sarah turned to him. "I'm sure the Andrews will want to introduce you to Erin after the tests are complete."

As they walked toward the lift, none of the reporters spoke to them, though Draco could tell it was with great restraint that they held back.

Sarah led him through the hospital, chatting about Erin's potion, the media interest, and how sweet the Andrews were. Draco wasn't paying much attention because, even though they were relatively alone, he couldn't shake the feeling they were being watched or followed.

Glancing down an open hallway, Draco caught a glimpse of the last thing he wanted to see at that moment: an intricately sculpted, platinum-blonde coiffure that could only belong to Rita Skeeter.

He hissed and darted across the opening, pulling Sarah with him.

"Draco, what—" she started.

"Shh!" he commanded, putting a finger to his lips. Sure enough, he heard the sound of Rita's heels clicking across the tile floor. "Bugger." He darted to the first door he saw. It was locked.

The second wasn't, and he threw it open, reaching for Sarah's hand.

She pulled away. "What are you doing?"

"Get—come on!" he cried, lunging for her arm and pulling her into the room. He quickly shut the door, locked it, made it imperturbable, and put up more wards than guarded Azkaban. Then he slunk into the darkest corner.

Sarah stood in the middle of the room, watching him with an amused and slightly irritated expression. "Draco," she said. "What are you doing?"

"Shh! She might hear you!"

"Who?" Sarah asked. "And I don't think she'd hear an explosion in here, you put up so many wards."

"Skeeter. The most loathsome reporter you never want to meet. I have no doubt she could find us if she put her mind to it."

"You're running and hiding from a reporter?" Sarah asked incredulously.

"She's no ordinary one!" he insisted. "She's awful, she twists things, lies, cheats—"

"Haven't you noticed what's been going on?" Sarah asked, crossing her arms and moving closer to him.

"I … I don't know what you're talking about." He shifted uneasily.

Sarah sighed and leaned against a spare bed. "This entire situation with Erin, what you've done! People have responded with incredible support! Complete strangers speak to me on the streets, they stop by the hospital to send good wishes to Erin's parents. The lobby is bursting with gifts and flowers. People have been following this story, and they genuinely care! About her, about me, about you! You haven't spoken one word on her behalf in the past two weeks, and now you're hiding in a spare room, cowering like a child. What are you so afraid of?"

Draco was stunned by Sarah's outburst for a moment before he turned defensive. "Afraid? I'm not afraid. I just don't want some nosy reporter trying to make me into something I'm not!"

"Like what?" Sarah argued. "A nice guy who did a good thing? Would that be so terrible?"

"Well, no," he said after a few moments of silence.

"This isn't just about you, you know," she continued, her voice more gentle. "Sure, you helped, but have you considered what this means, not just for Erin, but for others? For the hospital? This kind of publicity …" Her face lit up. "We might be able to finally get funding for future cases like Erin's. You have a wonderful opportunity to help further that, just by saying a few words, because of who you are, how far you've come."

"Who I am?" he repeated. "And who is that, exactly?"

"A-an ex-Death Eater, according to what I've read. That's true, isn't it?"

"Yes, it's true, and that's precisely my point," he answered sharply. "Whatever I do, it all comes back to that. They'll never let me or anyone else forget! I hate having it dredged up over and over. My past should be just that: the past. Sure, I can help your hospital, but the attention should be focused on the work being done here, not _me_."

"And yet, you're here." She moved to him, stepping just inside the space he liked to keep to himself, and put her hand on his arm. "I'm glad it's you. I've done a lot of thinking over the past weeks, and … I want to say … I don't care about all of that."

Her eyes were intense and vulnerable, and he read the unspoken message in them. He started in surprise. "Oh."

"It's obvious that you aren't that person anymore. What you've done for Erin shows me the kind of man you are now. I don't care about your past, Draco. All I'm interested in is your future."

Draco was at a complete loss for what to say and thought for a moment she might try to kiss him. She didn't, but she didn't move away, either.

"You don't have to say anything right now, if you'd prefer," she murmured. "Take whatever time you need."

How the conversation had jumped to this topic, he couldn't recall. "Time won't change anything, Sarah. You say that you don't care, but you don't really know what it is you're dismissing so lightly."

"I'm not dismissing anything lightly, Draco. I've done an awful lot of thinking, and I've talked to people who explained things to me in … in detail. While it didn't exactly thrill me to learn what was involved in working for Voldemort, I also know that you turned away from that life, and now look at you! You're successful and respected—"

Draco laughed at that. "No, not even close. Potter is respected, Weasley, Granger …" He stopped, realizing he was having a semantic argument with Sarah when it didn't matter one whit. If he could turn _Hermione_ down, this woman didn't have a chance. At least Hermione knew, in large part, what it would mean to be involved with him.

Draco sensed that Sarah was about to start up again, so he spoke first. "Look, Sarah, I appreciate what you've said about me. Perhaps, if things were different … it might be possible." Her face fell and he hated that she would be sad over him. He continued. "The thing is, there's someone else. You're a really wonderful woman, and I admire you a lot, but I'm afraid I'm not available."

Sarah blinked, taken by surprise at his admission and stepped back. "Oh! I … the newspaper said you weren't seeing anyone. I'm so sorry."

He took a breath, grateful for the return of his personal space. "It's … complicated," he replied.

Sarah smiled sadly. "I hope you're not hiding from her the way you're hiding from this reporter."

Draco's jaw dropped and he stared at Sarah. "What do you mean by that?" he managed to ask.

She shrugged and wrapped her arms around herself as though cold. "I would think that it was obvious."

"I'm not hiding," he asserted stubbornly. He had very good reasons for why he wasn't with Hermione. Though … was it possible they were really just excuses? Was he hiding from her, from a relationship?

"I think we should go and check on the Andrews," said Sarah at last. Draco hadn't noticed that she'd moved toward the door.

"All right," he said, his head feeling thick and full.

They made their way back to Erin's room, ignoring the reporters along the way. Once inside, one of the Healers asked to speak with Sarah. Erin's parents were in good spirits, smiling and talking closely with each other and with their daughter until the five Healers went into a side room, leaving Draco with the Andrews.

Mrs. Andrews stood and hesitantly approached Draco. "Thank you," she said, "From the bottom of my heart, thank you."

"You're welcome," he said. "Did the Healers have any news?"

"Not yet," said Mr. Andrews, "but they seemed optimistic. There were no adverse reactions to their tests; Erin didn't exhibit any signs of the active disease. They won't know for sure for a few hours."

"That's wonderful," Draco remarked, smiling broadly.

"Mr. Malfoy," said Mr. Andrews, indicating the bed. "I would like for you to meet our daughter, Erin."

The girl smiled at him shyly. "Thank you, Mr. Malfoy. Mum and dad said you're paying for all of this."

Draco returned the smile and approached the bed, stopping near the foot. "It was my pleasure, Erin. I bet you're happy to see your parents."

"Yes, Sir," she said. "I'm happy that I won't accidentally hurt anyone anymore."

Draco nodded solemnly. "Have a good summer, Erin."

"Thank you," she said.

The other Healers returned, along with a mediwitch with a tray of food. "All right, now it's time for Erin to eat and get some rest," Sarah said. "She's got a significant recovery ahead of her, and we don't want her to get worn out." Then she addressed the Andrews. "The tests look good so far, but it will take twenty-four hours before we can say for certain."

The Andrews were pleased and the Healers left for the lab with their samples and data.

"We can't thank you enough, Mr. Malfoy," said Mr. Andrews, standing and extending his hand. "You've given me back my daughter, my family. There is no way to adequately thank you in this or any lifetime."

"You are truly welcome," Draco said. "If you'll excuse me, I need to be going. I have a few things to do before I head back to the office." He wanted to do something other than stand around feeling awkward, and he needed to give some thought to what Sarah had said about hiding from people.

**ooo**

"Hi."

"Hi," Draco said, forcing himself not to rub his eyes in disbelief at the sight before him. He stood just inside the front door, looking out at the last person he expected to see.

"May I come in?" she asked.

"Oh. Um, okay." A feeling of panic welled in him as he let her into his home.

She walked a few steps into the house then stopped, and turned around to him.

"Would you like some tea?" he asked automatically.

"That sounds lovely," she said.

While he prepared the tea, she sat at the table, examining what she could see of the house as though she hadn't been there a hundred times or more.

When it was ready, he sat across from her, placing the sugar bowl between them and letting her retrieve two cubes before reaching for his one. She stirred her tea slowly, appearing deep in thought.

The silence was beginning to get to him, so he asked, "What are you doing here, Hermione?"

"It's nice to see you too, after all this time," she retorted, sipping casually at her tea, unconcerned about his state of agitation.

"Yes, well, I didn't expect to see you … today," he said, feeling his usual ambivalence at her presence. This time, however, his feelings leaned toward happy to see her.

"The thing is, it's been weeks since I've seen you. I wanted to talk to you."

"What about?" he asked.

She shrugged, not looking at him. "Nothing in particular … or something. It doesn't matter."

"So … you're here because—"

"I missed you, all right?" she said, frustrated. "Is that so terrible? I hadn't realized that I would be agreeing to an extended absence. I'm not going to … press you, or make things hard, but I didn't see the harm in dropping by."

He sighed, warmed more by her words than by his tea. "You're lucky I was here," he said, taking a sip from his cup. "I'm rarely here during the day of late, and I've only got about half an hour before I have to leave again."

Hermione nodded. "Do you have any plans for the weekend?"

Draco shrugged. "Work, and more work."

She smiled. "Sounds exciting."

"Tremendously," he said, swirling his tea.

"Draco … I've been thinking," she said, picking absently at the edge of the table.

He suspected the real reason behind her visit was about to be brought to his attention. If she hadn't already said she missed him, he would have been terrified that she was about to say she'd changed her mind, that she regretted kissing him and wasting her time on him.

"Oh?" he said. "What about?"

"Well, you," she responded immediately, finally looking at him.

Merlin, he missed her too. "What about me?"

"We have to talk about this," she said frankly. "If this isn't a good time, that's fine, but I will come back later, and it will be soon. It's up to you."

"Talk about what, exactly?" he asked.

"The last time I was here, you said you needed time, and that's fine. However, I think I have a right to know just what I'm waiting for and when you think you might get around to dealing with it. I have waited a long time for you, and if I'm going to keep waiting, I need a reason."

He narrowed his eyes. "You're pushing me," he said angrily.

"Maybe it's time someone did," she replied, unfazed. "That last time we talked, you said you didn't know when, if ever, we could be together. I would like to work that out today; to choose between 'when' and 'if ever.'"

Draco scowled. "What exactly do you suggest? Don't you think I've thought this through?"

"I'm sure you have," she said. "But often, when you're embroiled in a difficult situation, it's hard to see all sides." Hermione reached over and put her hand on his arm. "Talk to me, Draco. Let's see what we can figure out together." She cocked her head slightly. "We've always said we make a good team."

"True …" He trailed off. For several long moments he was quiet, considering telling her everything. Merlin, they would be there all night if he did that! Even then, there was no guarantee that it would help anything. But all she wanted was for him to try, to tell her what was keeping him away. "I'm not sure how to start."

Hermione retracted her hand away and wrapped both around her cup. "Say the first thing that comes to your mind."

Draco shoved his chair away from the table and started pacing, frowning as his thoughts ran in circles through his head. Eventually, he paused, not looking at her when he spoke. "It's … layers," he said haltingly, still trying to find the right words. "I've been slowly working through them for years. Working my way …" He shifted his eyes just enough to lock with hers. "To you."

She nodded encouragingly. "That sounds nice. How many layers left?"

"Just one," he said, running a hand through his hair and exhaling slowly.

"Any chance we could work through it together?" she asked.

He shook his head fervently. "No. It's nothing to do with you; I don't want to bring you in to that."

"Draco, I need for you to be able to talk to me." She took a deep breath. "If there's ever going to be anything between us, we need to be able to open up to each other, be honest. No matter what. You've got to trust me."

"I do trust you," he insisted. "I simply don't see what telling you this will accomplish."

"It will show me that you're serious about wanting to be with me," she explained. "That you're willing to try."

He frowned again, frustrated. It was so simple to say, but extremely difficult at the same time. "It's my father," he said abruptly, before he lost his nerve.

Hermione finally looked as though she grasped the significance of this final layer. "What about him?" she asked.

Draco shook his head. "That's all you or anyone needs to know. He is my father; I am his son. His blood flows through my veins. He is a part of me and always will be."

"Of course that's true," she said. "What are you not telling me?"

His frustration was growing. Wasn't it obvious? It was clear as crystal in his own mind. "His actions, beliefs, prejudices, are reflected by me. I used to spout off everything I heard him say, used to want to _be_ him. Just like him, anyway."

"You aren't that boy anymore, Draco," said Hermione sternly.

Draco clenched his jaw, his eyes blazing. "You want to know what really haunts me? What keeps me awake at night, gives me nightmares? Are you sure?"

"Absolutely," she said without hesitation or breaking eye contact. If she was frightened at all, as he had feared she didn't show it.

"Fine." Draco resumed pacing, unsure how to articulate years of self-doubt and fear. "My father … he wasn't always that way. My mother told me he used to be a decent person, in his circles, though he was always prejudiced and narrow minded. But he was hard-working, ambitious, and did much for the company he would someday inherit from his father. He loved my mother once, very deeply, and they had several good years together."

Draco took a deep breath and glanced at Hermione. She was watching him with rapt attention. He continued. "Then the Dark Lord began to grow stronger. My father didn't join up straight out of school, as most suspect. He married my mother first thing and pledged political support to him, but after a few years that he was recruited into the Death Eaters.

"But my father grew distant, started drinking more, spending more and more time with the other Death Eaters. I think my mother had me in an attempt to force him to return his attention to his family."

Draco let out a long breath. "There's no way to know if it would have worked. It had seemed to, but then the Dark Lord was temporarily defeated. Still, his poison had sunk into my parents. After his return, it only got worse. Though they never argued in front of me, never let me see that their relationship was in shambles, I could feel it whenever we were together."

He paused. Hermione was still unfazed. "You remember the night I found out my mother died?"

Her eyes suffused with sympathy. "Of course I do."

"It … it was Lucius who did it."

Now Hermione's eyes widened. "Oh!" she breathed. "Draco, I'm so sorry! Are you certain it was him?"

"Mostly. Who else would it have been?" he said bitterly. "And you've nothing to be sorry for. All I want to hear is that you understand now."

She frowned. "I'm sorry, Draco. What your father did … was horrible, but I don't see what that has to do with us."

He looked at her incredulously. "Truly?" When she nodded, he shook his head. "My father loved my mother once. More than anything." Draco gave only half a thought to the realization he had, in his own way, told Hermione he felt the same way about her. "What he did to her, to his family … I don't want to be like him!"

Again, her eyes widened as she processed what he meant. "Draco!"

"Don't bother trying to convince me that it's not possible. I've already left my family once. I cannot bear the thought of hurting you, yet I have it within me to do the very thing I loathe."

"I don't believe that's true," she said stubbornly. "You left your parents' side because it was the wrong side. That was a decision you had to make. You aren't going to run and join up in the next Dark army that comes along."

"Maybe not, but it doesn't have to be a band of Dark wizards," he insisted. "I could let something else come before you in my life: work, travel, other people. To the point that I have effectively abandoned you. My father was capable of such short-sightedness, such singular focus; I am too."

Hermione gave him a doubtful look. "There isn't any point in discussing what may or may not ever happen, Draco. I trust you not to turn into your father; the very fact that you don't want to tells me so much."

"My father wasn't always a monster!" Draco shouted, pounding his fist against the wall. "He didn't set out to abandon his wife and son, but that's what he did. Completely and absolutely gave himself over to that madman, to the point that he could kill her at the Dark Lord's order."

"Why did Voldemort want your mother dead?" Hermione asked.

"I-I don't know. I've never been able to find out," Draco replied, feeling weary at the emotional toll of talking about the darkest blot on his soul.

Hermione nodded sympathetically. "You should go see him, then. Find out what happened to your mum, ask him why he did what he did. See if you can get him to explain his motives. I think you'll see that you aren't exactly like him. Sort this out, confront him, yell at him—whatever you have to do to put this behind you."

He stared at her, incredulous. "Go … see him?"

She stood and walked over to him, close enough that he could smell her shampoo. It was definitely inside his personal space, but he found the distance still too far. It was true, what he had read, about the force of attraction being inversely proportional to the distance between the two objects. At that moment, he wanted nothing but to pull her close, as close as he could get, never to let her go, but he kept his arms firmly at his sides.

"Yes." Her tone held no room for question. "Go see him. Do what you must, Draco. Don't give him any hold over you; don't let him keep you from the life you want. If you don't, you'll never be free from his shadow!"

"I don't know if I can."

"I do," she said confidently, smiling slightly. "After everything else you've done, I know you can."

He looked away, down, at his feet. Without a doubt, he didn't deserve someone like her in his life, yet there she was, trying to establish herself there. That knowledge comforted him, more than he thought possible.

"I need to think about this. It's not so easily done, and I have no idea what I would say."

"Think about it," she said gently. "You'll figure it out. I should get going now; don't want you to be late."

Draco nodded and followed her to the door, opening it for her and then pausing in the frame. "Thank you," he said, "for coming over. For trying to do something. I've missed you too."

Hermione smiled. "I'll be back soon, all right?"

"I hope I'm here when you do."

Then Hermione winked. "I'm in good with your secretary. I'll find you."

**ooo**

"Where _is _he?" muttered an annoyed and pacing Ron.

"Ron, if you don't relax, I'm going to leave." Pansy's voice was strained. "He saidhe would come, didn't he?"

"Yes, but I sent the letter over an hour ago!"

"Do you want me to force a Calming Draught down your throat? This isn't about you, anyway! Besides, he keeps his word, you know that."

Ron rolled his eyes. "You're right. What was I thinking? His name is practically synonymous with trust and honor," he quipped sarcastically.

"Weasley, I'm going to pretend you were talking about Longbottom in order to keep today pleasant."

Ron and Pansy whipped around to see Draco standing in the doorway of the waiting room, looking quite smug.

"Malfoy! Where have you been?" Ron demanded.

Draco sauntered in, setting his cloak and the package in a chair. "Why, Weasley—miss me?" He sat down gracefully and folded his hands in his lap.

"When did you get here?" Ron demanded.

"Just in time to hear you whine about me _not _being here," Draco replied.

Ron folded his arms over his chest. "I wrote to you an hour ago."

"Honestly, Weasley, what's the big deal?" He frowned. "Have I missed something? Is she all right?"

"Oh, yeah, she's fine, at least, considering. She went into labor about an hour and half ago. Harry, Hermione and Mum are back there now. Mum is a mess, trying to keep Ginny calm, and Hermione is trying to keep Mum in check. I was in charge of letting everyone know."

Draco crossed his arms behind his head and leaned back in the seat. "And you've done that. I'm here now. However, I was in the middle of a meeting discussing a merger that's been on the table for nearly three months now. The fate of two hundred employees is up in the air, and we are trying to find a way for them to keep their jobs. Nevertheless, I ended it early and made my way here, and I was happy to do it. I think only an hour late is quite good considering what the rest of my day was supposed to entail."

Ron was gaping.

"Hello, Pansy," Draco said, glancing up at her.

"Thank you for showing up and saving me from his fussing," said Pansy, sitting down and grabbing the nearest magazine. When she held it up to start perusing, Draco saw that it was an old issue of Witch Weekly. A picture of he and Sarah with Erin waved at him from the cover.

"My pleasure," he remarked, and then turned back to Ron. "I've toldyou before that I actually do work, Weasley. It is not my problem that you continually choose to ignore me."

At that moment, the door to the room burst open admitting a great raucous of noise, caused by Fred, George, Percy and his wife, Arthur, Charlie, Bill and Fleur Weasley.

Draco looked at Ron with a raised brow. "It would appear I'm not the only one who didn't come immediately when summoned?"

Ron ignored him, greeting his family. The pertinent news was spread, details provided, and the redheaded clan left for Ginny's room.

When just the three of them were left, Ron sighed. "Sorry, mate. I was really getting anxious. Harry put me in charge of alerting everyone, and as you saw, everyone was late. Except Mum, of course, she's been here since the beginning. I'm really glad you're here."

Draco nodded. "Me too."

"How have you been?" asked Pansy, setting aside the magazine. "I haven't seen you in ages, it seems like. Since the night you show up drunk on my doorstep at 3 in the morning, if memory serves …When was that, anyway? Two months ago?"

He met her gaze and sighed. "A little bit over, yeah. I've been busy with work. This merger has required every spare second of my time. It's a good thing the business about Erin has calmed down, otherwise I'd barely sleep."

"Sometimes I think you work too much, Draco," Pansy said.

"Funny," he said, smirking. "Ron doesn't think I ever work. Maybe I work just the right amount, then."

"You work too much if you haven't been able to see your friends once in almost two months," Pansy scolded. "Have you managed to see Hermione?"

He leveled his gaze on her. "Couple of times, yes. What of it?"

Pansy shrugged noncommittally. "Oh, nothing, I'm sure. Just remember, when you start dating, you won't be able to be so busy."

Ron spun around, his eyes wide. Slowly, his gaze drifted from Draco to Pansy and back. "Are you going to start dating soon?"

Draco raised an eyebrow, amused by his friend's behavior. "Not that I know of," he replied.

"Oh, okay. I'm sure I would have heard if you were."

"Right …"

Pansy was watching him, a shrewd expression on her face. When Draco met her gaze, she nodded. "Ron knows?"

"Yes," said Draco with a groan.

"Pansy knows?" Ron exclaimed. "Was I the only person who didn't know?"

Both Draco and Pansy looked at him and Pansy shook her head.

"No," replied Draco. "You, Pansy and Harry are the only people who _do_ know."

"Oh. Right. _Hermione_ doesn't know."

Draco stood abruptly. "I'm going for a walk." The Weasleys returned to the waiting room just as Draco was leaving it. His timing couldn't have been better, he thought, as he strode through the hospital, looking for a quiet place to think.

In the three weeks since Hermione had knocked on his door, offering her help, Draco had seen her twice. They had met for lunch the week after and then briefly for coffee the week before. Each time she had encouraged him to visit his father, and each time he had refused to commit. The thought of facing Lucius after so much time was daunting. He had thought about what he wanted to say to the man, but hadn't yet worked up the courage.

He returned to the waiting room periodically for updates, but never stayed around long. The room was full of noise, of people talking all at once and trying to talk over the person sitting beside them. He couldn't take it, and made up excuses to leave as soon as he decided it wouldn't be too rude to leave again.

Hermione had been in the room on two occasions. On the first, she'd been talking to Fred and George. That had been the shortest interval that Draco stayed in the room. Even though he knew she had broken up with Fred, seeing them talking together made him want to cause bodily harm to the red-head, who he knew was trying to get back together with her. The second time he saw her, he had provided dinner for everyone. He had eaten with the large group, but he couldn't relax. All they did was sit, and wait, and talk. Draco considered asking Hermione if she wanted to try and sneak into a Restricted Area with him, but she was in the middle of a conversation with Pansy. He tried alone and failed.

Finally, at two-thirty in the morning, Harry and Ginny had their baby. Only Draco was awake, enjoying the peace and quiet, sitting outside the packed waiting room, reading. He looked up when he sensed someone approaching. It was Molly, and she had tears in her eyes.

Draco was immediately alarmed, but Molly smiled. "Happy tears," she assured him quietly. "They'd like to see you, Draco."

He blinked. "Me?"

"Yes. They don't want to see everyone all at once. They asked for you first. Room 323"

"Okay." He stood and found the right room, surprised at being especially requested by the new parents.

Ginny was resting in bed, and she looked exhausted but also brilliantly happy. Harry was standing beside the bed, holding her hand and talking quietly to his wife. They looked up and smiled when he arrived.

Draco crossed to Harry and went to shake his hand, but Harry pulled him into an embrace.

"Congratulations," said Draco, smiling.

Harry beamed.

Draco leaned over to hug Ginny and kissed her cheek. "How are you feeling?"

"Like a million Galleons," she sighed, dreamily. The room was quiet and almost dark; there was a muted light in one corner and another near the baby's bed. Ginny motioned toward where her child slept. "It's a boy," she said, pride showing in her voice.

Draco went to see the baby. He was wrapped tightly in a blue blanket and was sleeping soundly. He had a head full of thin hair, dark, like Harry's, and just as wild. He moved a little and something inside Draco softened.

"Do you want to hold him?" Ginny asked.

Draco spun around, incredulous. "Hold him?"

Harry nodded and picked his son off the baby bed. "Yeah, go on."

"I don't know; I've never held a baby before." Draco stared at the baby, then gave Harry a cautious look. He wasn't sure he even should hold him; the child was too pure, too innocent …

"You'll do fine," Harry encouraged, gently placing his son in Draco's arms.

Hesitantly, Draco accepted the baby, feeling strangely awkward. He tried to mimic what he had seen other people do, but then Ginny laughed.

"Come here," she said.

He went to the bedside and Ginny instructed him on the correct way to hold a baby. Though he still felt as though if he made any wrong moves he would hurt the sleeping infant, he felt better about holding him. The position Ginny had put him in felt very natural. Within moments, Draco was enchanted, certain that the tiny life form in his arms was perfect.

"What's his name?" he asked, not taking his eyes off the baby.

"James Ronald Potter."

Draco smiled and spoke softly, "Hello, James Potter."

"Say, umm, Draco. Ginny and I want to ask you something."

He tore his gaze away from James' face and saw Harry and Ginny holding hands and grinning widely at him. "What?" he asked warily.

"We want you to be his godfather," said Ginny.

Draco's eyes widened, astonishment written in bold print across his face. "You want … _me_. To be his godfather." When they both nodded, he frowned. "Why me? What about Ron?"

Harry shrugged. "Ron got the middle name and he gets the next one. We just both want you to do this."

"But … why? I've no experience with babies, and you can't possibly think I'd be any good at this."

"What's there to do?" Harry asked. "Be there for holidays, birthdays, special events, that kind of thing. All it means is that you're required to be part of our lives—for good."

James gurgled and made a tiny fussy noise. Draco looked at him, and watched as his tiny face scrunched in protest at something. His little arms flailed uselessly, and Draco captured one of his hands, gazing in awe at the way his fingers were already wrinkled at the knuckles.

The sounds that came from James' mouth and the sight of him, pure, vulnerable, and beautiful, changed Draco's heart forever. As he stared at the tiny living thing in his arms that was trying to understand its new place in the world, Draco realized that the thing he'd been dreading had just happened and he'd barely noticed it. The third world-changing event in his life wasn't a witch, as he had feared, but a tiny, helpless baby.

"That's very … Slytherin of you, Potter." Draco watched his friend shift nervously. "Attaching me to this baby to keep me around. What gave you the impression that such a thing was necessary?"

He shrugged. "It's just a feeling I get sometimes, when I see you interacting with people. You're going somewhere, Malfoy. Your life is bigger than a small cottage by the sea. I'm glad you're there now, but I don't think it'll last."

Draco was quiet for a few minutes as he considered his friends' words. His first thought was of Hermione. If they were together, nothing could pull him away … Then he realized his life could take both of them away, somewhere else, if he ever wanted it. But they could still be in Harry's life, even from a slight distance.

If he wasn't with Hermione … he could easily see himself leaving someday. The thought of watching her fall in love with someone else, get married, have a family, caused an intense, throbbing pain in his heart. He wouldn't let that happen, he refused; he would work through his issues, force himself through.

"I'm not going anywhere, Potter," Draco affirmed.

"Well, then? What do you say?" said Ginny, nervously. "Of course, if you don't want to, we'd understand."

He looked at them. "Are you _sure _you want me?"

"Yes," they both assured him.

Draco shook his head. "You do realize I'll spoil him rotten."

Ginny grinned and clapped her hands. "Is that a yes?"

Draco couldn't help but grin too, amazed that he could feel so full over so small a thing. He had thought his life would be complete and whole with Hermione in it, but how he suspected that he wanted even more. He nodded. "You've been warned."

"Oh, thank you, Draco!" she exclaimed.

"What are you thanking mefor? You're the one who just went through twelve hours of labor to deliver my godson. I should thank you,Mrs. Potter."

"Just look at you holding him. You're a natural, Draco."

Harry turned to him then, a serious look on his face. "Let's agree on something here, Malfoy. He won't be spoiled; we won't let you."

Draco smirked. "I look forward to watching you try to stop me."

Just then there was a soft knock and all three turned toward the door. An exhausted looking Hermione entered with a tray full of food. "Sorry it took me so long. They told me I'd have to wait until normal breakfast hours to get a meal, but I wouldn't hear of it." She set the tray down beside Ginny's bed. "The woman didn't know who she was dealing with. I told her Harry Potter's son had just been born and that his wife was hungry. She saw reason, and here I am."

"Thanks, Hermione," said Ginny, practically lunging for the piece of bread on the tray.

"There's plenty for you too, Harry," Hermione said.

"No, Ginny can have it," he said, his lips once again slipping into a grin. Draco decided Harry's face was in danger of getting stuck in that ridiculous expression.

James chose that moment to let out a cry, and both his parents and Hermione looked at him. It was the first time Hermione noticed Draco, as he had been standing in the darker corner of the room, and her expression lightened.

Draco started pacing the room, hoping it would help.

"See?" said Ginny, when James stopped fussing after a few circuits. "You're a natural."

Draco smiled at her and continued pacing. "I'm a Malfoy. We're naturally good at everything."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Except humility."

Hermione crossed the room and Draco stopped moving. "May I hold him?" she asked. "I haven't had a chance yet, since I was off procuring sustenance for his mum."

"James," said Draco, speaking softly to the baby while keeping his eyes locked with Hermione's. "This is Hermione. She's a very good friend of your dad and mum. She's really smart. One day, when you have problems with schoolwork, or women, or life, go to her. Not your dad. He's a bit thick."

Hermione's expression turned amused.

Draco continued. "Definitely don't ask your Uncle Ron. He's worse off than your dad."

"Draco!" Hermione laughed.

He looked at her with an innocent expression. "What? He needs to know this stuff. It's important. The future of his O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s is on the line."

"And _you _are the one to tell him."

He nodded smugly but remained silent.

"It's my turn," she insisted, reaching for the baby.

He hesitated, and then carefully handed James to Hermione. "Mind his head," he told her. "And keep him wrapped nice and tight. If he fusses, walk him."

"Thanks, Draco," she quipped. "I think I can handle it."

While she walked the room, Draco glanced at Harry and Ginny. They were talking quietly, and Harry was glancing between Hermione and himself. Then he met Draco's gaze, shrugged and turned away. Then Ginny looked at him and smiled widely. Suspicion settled in Draco's gut like a boulder and he realized that Ginny probably knew about what had happened between him and Hermione.

He didn't like thinking that someone else was privy to their personal exchange, but he realized Hermione must have needed to talk about it.

Draco frowned and his gaze shifted to Hermione and James. His harsh expression melted. Seeing her that way, tenderly holding the infant and talking to him quietly, did something indescribable to him. A baby had changed his world, and that same baby, in the arms of the woman he loved, made him realize that he wanted that life, that he would do anything to have it. Draco would do whatever was required in order to make that happen, even see his father. He looked at James' parents and saw them still whispering quietly.

"I should warn you, Potter, that I intend to use all of my skills and influence to ensure that your firstborn is sorted into _my _house."

Hermione's head whipped up, a puzzled and playful look on her face. "Do you _honestly _think this child, whose parents and grandparents were in Gryffindor, could _ever _be a Slytherin?"

Harry laughed.

Draco arched an eyebrow at her. "If his godfather has anything to say about it, I'd say he's got a very good chance."

Her eyes widened. "His _what_?"

He smirked. "You heard me."

Hermione glanced to Harry and Ginny for affirmation, and then back at James. "Uncle Ron is going to be very unhappy," she cooed, a smile gracing her lips. Then she looked back at Harry and Ginny, a sparkle of mischief in her eyes. "Oh, Harry! We simply _must _teach James to call him Uncle Won-Won!"

Harry and Ginny burst out laughing, and Hermione joined them. They laughed so hard they started crying. Draco scowled. Honestly, it wasn't _that _funny.

Hermione stopped laughing eventually and said, "Congratulations, Draco. I think the proud parents made an excellent choice."

"I still think they've gone round the bend," Draco remarked, averting his face so that no one saw him blush. "Ron should be the responsible godparent, and I would be the one you aren't sure you should leave alone with him."

"Well, now you're just being trite," said Ginny. "I have every confidence in you, Draco."

That comment officially put him beyond the edge of personal comfort. It was getting too soft and friendly in the room, and he needed fresh air. "Fantastic. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to find the loo."

When he returned from a nice long walk around the third floor to clear his head, Ginny was asleep and Hermione was gone. Harry was sitting next to Ginny, nearly asleep himself. Draco walked to where James was sleeping and sat down next to the small bed. Harry came to join him, yawning.

"Mind if I stay a bit?" Draco asked.

"No, not at all. Enjoy the quiet while you can. Once her family comes in …"

Draco shuddered. "Needless to say, I'll not be here for that."

"Wish I could go with you."

He chuckled, and then turned his attention to James. "Harry, he's unlike anything I've ever seen before." He watched James, his _godson_, breathe in and out, mouth slightly parted. He looked at the tiny fingers and facial features and for some reason, he thought about Harry. He'd only been a baby when the Dark Lord had tried to kill him, not too much bigger than James. The thought angered Draco in a way he'd never been before. To kill a babywas sick. How could a grown man be so afraid of something so helpless?

"Want one?" said Harry, jokingly.

Draco's expression was dark, and he knew it. "I just realized what a frightening concept that would be."

"Oh? How so?" Harry asked.

Draco watched as James breathed. In … out … in … out. "I don't want to think of what I might do. Just the thought of someone hurting _your_ child, or of something bad happening to _him_, makes my blood boil, and he's not even mine. I know what I'm capable of, and it scares me."

"Yeah, I've had a few violent thoughts myself already. But you'll have someone around to balance you, like I have Ginny. I just look at her and my blood starts to cool."

Draco scowled and turned away from Harry, but he couldn't hold the expression after his eyes fell on James. He spoke quietly. "I don't have someone to cool my blood, Harry. I'm … there has been a block, something keeping me from accepting what's right in front of me. But I'm not going to let it control my life. I … I think I'm finally ready to explore it." James made another fussy noise.

"Yeah?" Harry said.

Draco nodded.

"Good. It's about time, really." Harry picked his son off the bed when he started crying. "I think he's hungry."

"I'll go," said Draco. "I'll try to stop by again before she goes home."

"All right. Thanks for being here, for agreeing to do this," Harry said.

Draco shook his head as he reached the door. "You're barmy for asking me, but … I'm honored despite your lunacy. Later, Harry."

**ooo**

**End Notes**: My sincerest apologies for the super-long wait for this update! I hope you'll forgive the delay! Just one chapter left to go. Thanks for reading!


	10. Chapter 9

**Author's Note**: I know I haven't titled any previous chapters, but this title is simply perfect. It's taken from an episode of Lost.  
**Beta Credits**: A writer could not ask for a better team of betas. Endless thanks to manda, drcjsnider, and Buzzy.  
**Disclaimer**: Harry Potter and his world belong to JK Rowling. I write to learn. No money is being made.

**Chapter 9 – All Cowboys Have Daddy Issues**

The day after James was born, Draco went to the Ministry in order to inquire about visiting his father. He went to the Department of Law Enforcement and was asked to wait for someone to speak with him.

"Mr. Malfoy?" said a short, balding wizard. "I was told you are inquiring about someone in Azkaban?"

"I would like to visit a prisoner, yes," he replied.

The older man gave a strained smile. "I see. Very good. Here are the forms you must fill out before your request can be granted."

Draco frowned, staring at the pieces of parchment being handed to him. "Forms? I can't just … go to the prison? It's just my father."

"Oh, no, sir. I'm afraid not." He waved the forms at Draco. "First things first."

Grumbling, Draco filled out the required paperwork and left, feeling both relieved that he didn't have to see his father that day and discouraged that his attempt had been thwarted.

He received a letter from the Ministry four days later informing him that his request to see Lucius Malfoy had been received, processed, and approved. His appointment, however, was not for almost three weeks. As he stared at the letter in frustration, all his plans temporarily halted, a pang of loneliness clutched his chest and Draco realized he missed Hermione. A mere five days had passed since he last saw her, and it felt like far too long. The letter was a good excuse to visit her, and it would also show her that he was taking action, as he had said he would. After glancing at a clock, Draco decided to do something he had never done before: visit Hermione at work.

Draco knocked on the door of her office in the Department of Education, where Hermione was Assistant Director in charge of a new program providing pre-Hogwarts training for Muggle-borns. The transition from life as a Muggle into the magical world could be overwhelming, and Hermione wanted to help children and their families make a smoother entry than even her own.

After he had knocked, however, he got nervous. She wasn't expecting him; what if she was in a meeting? What if she was busy? What if—

"Come in!"

Draco swallowed, took a deep breath, and entered the office. "Hey," he said.

Hermione's eyes were wide, but she also seemed delighted to see him. "Hi!" she said, starting out of her seat, but then changing her mind and sitting down again. "This is a surprise. Would you like to sit?" She indicated the chair opposite hers.

He nodded, slightly uncomfortable with the way she was looking at him, as though he had just promised her the moon and stars. "I thought you might want to see this," he said, handing her the letter from the Ministry.

She took it and quickly read it. "I had no idea the wait time for seeing prisoners was so long," she remarked, returning the letter.

"They said something about lack of adequate staffing and scheduling limitations. Plus, he's a high-security prisoner." Draco now glanced around the small space, surprised to find it slightly messy.

After a few almost-awkward moments, Hermione spoke. "I'm glad you got that appointment. It's just too bad that you have to wait a few weeks."

He nodded. "I know."

"Do you have any idea what you're going to say to him?" she asked.

"I've thought about it," he replied. "When I first went there, I had no idea, but now … I have a basic idea what I want to ask and say."

She smiled. "That's great."

"Say, Hermione …" He trailed off, unsure of himself. He had accomplished what he had set out to do, but now that he was there, with her, he found that he was in no hurry to leave. "Do you, um, get breaks?"

She blinked, for a moment taken aback. "Oh! Well, we get lunch, but I usually work through it. I'm sure it would be all right if I took a short break."

Draco smiled. "It's past lunch, so how does Fortescue's sound?" Ice cream had always been one of Hermione's favorite treats, one they had frequently indulged in during the period where they had seen a lot of each other.

Ten minutes later, they were sitting outside the ice cream parlour, Hermione eating caramel on a waffle cone and he his usual chocolate chunk with syrup and sprinkles in a cup.

"Trying something new?" he asked as he watched her lick at a drop that had run down the cone.

"Yes," she said simply. "But butterscotch will always be my favorite."

"That's good to know." He gave her a crooked smile. "Wouldn't want things to change too much."

"Some things will never change." She cast him a pointed look as she said it, then took another bite. "Oh!" she said suddenly, her eyes bright with excitement. "Did you get yours? I've been meaning to ask."

"Get my … what?" he said, confused. He wanted to believe she meant her feelings would never change.

"Your _invitation_." She emphasized the latter word.

"Ah. Of course," he replied. "Yes, I got it."

Hermione shook her head. "I can't believe Ron is really getting married."

Draco chuckled. "Likewise about Pansy. I had almost given up hope that she would find someone who would treat her the way she deserves."

"They're an interesting match," Hermione remarked. "But I think they're very good together. Ron needs someone who will look out for him, and Pansy is just the woman to do it."

"She needs a man who can be strong when she needs him to be. I'm happy to say that Ron is that man." Draco took his last bite of ice cream.

"I've already RSVP'd," Hermione said, focusing on collecting the most enjoyable bite she could.

"Do we even need to?" Draco asked. "We are in the wedding party; it seems frivolous to tell them what they already know."

"Common courtesy, I think. It would hardly kill you to do it, you know. It was a very simple process."

He leaned back in his seat, knowing it was true. He only had to touch his wand to the response card, think 'one,' and the card would absorb the number and his magical signature, alerting whomever was keeping track of the count. "You're right. I suppose I could do it, if it's helpful."

"I believe they need to know the number of guests in order to prepare enough food," Hermione said. "Will your RSVP be the same, then?" She only lifted her eyes to look at him.

Draco frowned, understanding taking a moment to sink in. "Don't be ridiculous," he quipped. As if he would secure a date for the wedding that wasn't her.

"Then who will you dance with?" she asked, her eyes smiling.

"I don't dance," he muttered.

Hermione raised an eyebrow and polished off her last bite. "You danced at Pansy's Christmas party," she reminded him. "It's a wedding. Everyone should dance at a wedding. Besides, do you think Pansy would let it go?"

Draco chuckled. "If you think Pansy's opinion on the matter will change anything, you don't know me very well."

"I never said it would," Hermione stated. "I mentioned it to prepare you for an entire evening of her pulling the 'It's my wedding day!' card until you cave. If you don't, then it will be all night."

"You're right," Draco mused. "It's so much better this way, having three weeks to come up with reasons why I won't dance, rather than trying to think of them in the moment."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Or you could dance, Draco. Save yourself the time and energy."

"I would only consider dancing with you," he said matter-of-factly, fidgeting with the napkin that had accompanied his ice cream and not meeting her eyes. "What do you say? Help me keep Pansy from targeting me with her incessant nagging?"

"Well, I've had dozens of requests already," she said playfully. "But I suppose I could fit you in."

"You're really doing Pansy a favor. Ron too, since he won't have to hear her complain all night," Draco added. "You know, because on her wedding day, I'm sure she'll have nothing better to do than worry about what I'm doing."

Hermione chuckled lightly and an awkward silence ensued.

Draco was just about to order another scoop when she spoke.

"I should get going. The ice cream was delicious."

"Thank you for joining me." He smiled.

"When will I see you again?" she asked, her tone impassive despite the burning curiosity in her eyes.

"I'm not sure," he admitted. "I have a full two weeks ahead of me, and I would like to visit James." He paused. The thought of going even one week without seeing her seemed unbearable. "I will see you."

She smiled bravely and gathered her things. "Well, you know where to find me."

**ooo**

The very first free hour he could find, Draco went to visit Ginny and James. She was in the living room, holding a sleeping James on her chest, half-asleep herself. She smiled when she saw him. "Draco. Hello."

"Hi, Ginny." He went directly to her side and leaned over so he could watch James' face. He couldn't believe how much he'd changed in just a few days. After watching the infant breathe a few times, Draco straightened. "How is he?"

"He's perfect, Draco," she replied serenely.

"I brought you some soup I made. It's frozen from a few weeks ago."

"Oh, thank you! Everyone brings gifts for the baby – it was sweet of you to think of Harry and me." James twitched then and made a fussy noise, and Ginny rubbed his back. "Want him?" she asked.

"Yes," he said without hesitation.

James' head bobbled as Ginny handed him to Draco, who steadied it with his hand as he brought the boy to his chest. He sat awkwardly on the sofa, feeling as though he was doing something wrong. His arms would tire in no time from holding James the way he was.

Ginny chuckled. "Here, put this on your lap." She tucked a pillow under his arms, allowing him to relax. "I'm going to freshen up a bit and put the soup away. Would you like something to drink?"

He declined. While she was gone, Draco allowed himself to picture Hermione returning to the room instead of Ginny. They would be in _his _house, and he would be holding _his _child. It amazed him how easily the thoughts of a life with her came now, where once he had refused to even consider the possibility that she fancied him.

He was still afraid, and he suspected it had something to do with why he hadn't gone near the cliff in months. The two were linked, somehow: the cliff and Hermione. He had to just shut his eyes and take that leap, but he didn't know which one had to happen first. The most logical course seemed to be Hermione, which would, in turn, give him the courage to finally jump off the cliff the way he wanted to: no broom.

When Ginny returned, James was again fast asleep. She pulled her legs up beneath her and sipped from a cup of tea. Then she fixed a steady gaze on him. "Well?"

Draco blinked. "Well … what?"

"When is someone going to tell me what's going on with you and Hermione?" she complained, her exasperation apparent. "Harry won't budge, I can't bribe Ron with food … _Pansy_ won't even look me in the eye because she knows she'll tell. Why am I being left out?" Her last question had fallen to a pout.

Draco smiled and shook his head. "I just assumed you knew," he said.

"Well, I don't," she huffed.

"Have you asked Hermione?" he inquired.

"Why didn't I think of that?" she scoffed sarcastically. "Yes, I've asked. All she does is smile like she's got a fantastic secret, hum a bit, and say 'nothing.' I'm out of patience, and I'm out of sources. Don't make me beg, Malfoy!"

"Wouldn't dream of it," he said, unable to take his eyes off the sleeping infant. "Hermione was technically telling the truth. Nothing is officially going on."

"Unofficial then?" Ginny asked.

"Yes."

"About time! Merlin, she's been sending you wayward looks for years!"

Draco frowned. "Years?"

"Don't tell me you didn't notice," Ginny scolded.

He shook his head. "I didn't know she fancied me until she kissed me."

Ginny's jaw dropped. "No! She kissed you?"

"Yes." He smirked.

"When? Where? I-I can't believe she didn't tell me!"

"Two months, nine days, four hours, give or take. Not that I'm keeping track." He smirked.

She rolled her eyes. "Right. I can't believe you were so oblivious! How could you not have noticed that she was interested?" Ginny demanded. "During the war? When you lived at Grimmauld Place?"

"I'm afraid my thoughts were elsewhere during that time," Draco explained.

Ginny just shook her head with a chuckle. "Everybody suspected. Well, except you, it would appear."

"That's right, I had no idea," he said, feeling slightly dazed at what he was hearing. "I was transitioning from one life to another, dealing with the knowledge that I had abandoned my family, worrying about my mother, and putting up with Harry and Ron's—not to mention most of the Order's—initial distrust of me. Romantic concerns weren't even in my sphere of thinking at that time. Short of throwing herself at me, nothing would have made me consider that she felt anything for me."

"Oh," said Ginny, somewhat deflated. "I can see that."

Draco rolled his eyes.

"But what about after the war?" she pressed. "Surely then…"

He shook his head. "I was still too inwardly focused, worried about the things in my life I needed to set right. Plus there was taking over the family business, learning it, moving into my house…"

"You were busy," Ginny remarked.

"Quite."

"So what's different now?" she asked.

"A lot of things," he said vaguely.

"I remember when she first told me," Ginny said wistfully. "She thought I would be angry with her, but who am I to judge Cupid? He strikes where he sees fit, and there's nothing anyone can do about it." She chuckled. "Hermione was so nervous that you still disliked her, or worse, that you wouldn't even notice her."

"I noticed her," Draco admitted. _After the conversation with my mother._

"She also didn't think she was good enough for you."

It was Draco's turn to gape. "You're joking!"

"I'm not. Your past was obviously far behind you, and she saw—we _all_ saw—a different Draco Malfoy. You were quiet and sullen, but also determined, and nothing could stand in your way. It's not exactly an unattractive quality."

"Still! I … I was also a Death Eater and I'm ashamed to admit, a murderer. The spawn of evil itself, I think your other half once said."

"You _were._ Then you chose not to be. Hermione saw what you were and always would be, outside of labels and tattoos. You're richer than should be legal, and getting richer every moment. You've always had an air about you of confidence, even at your lowest moments, that is intimidating. You're smart, well-read, eloquent – usually. Apparently, you've decided to become some kind of philanthropist. You're the desire of single witches everywhere, and you're incredibly good-looking. I only say that because I know it isn't possible for your ego to get any bigger. So, from her perspective, what does she have to offer someone like that – like you?"

"I'm hopelessly flawed, Ginny. She deserves better. All I can do is try."

"And if she wants to be with you, she'll do the same. As long as you both want to keep trying, you'll make it work."

He looked at her skeptically.

"I know you don't see how she could worry about being good enough for you, but that's because you've got such a negative attitude about yourself." Ginny set her teacup down and crossed her arms.

"Perhaps," he admitted reluctantly. "I suppose I see your point."

"Good," she said firmly. "Now tell me what's going on!"

Draco shrugged. "I love her. There's nothing more or less I can say."

**ooo**

After what felt like an eternity of anticipation, the date arrived for Draco to visit his father. The appointment was in the afternoon, so Draco went straight from work to the Ministry, where he presented the required paperwork and was shuttled off to the wizarding prison.

Too soon, Draco was ushered into a bare, stone room, where he waited for his father. He almost threw up when they escorted him in. Even in simple prison garb and with his hair shorn, Draco still found him intimidating. Regardless of the circumstances, Lucius still had a superior, aristocratic, fearsome look in his eyes.

"Draco." Lucius' voice was hard as steel and his eyes as cold as ice.

"Hello, Father."

Lucius sat across from Draco, who motioned for the guards to leave. They stared at each other, a battle of wills so to speak, for minutes. Draco finally looked away, unable to stare into the eyes that were so like his own, fear that he would fail Hermione settling into the pit of his stomach.

"What are you doing here?" Lucius asked with a superior drawl

Draco said nothing, still looking away.

"Really, _son_." The word was spoken as though it was painful to admit. "Why did you come all the way here and interrupt my day, if not to chat?"

The caustic tone of his father's voice did not have its intended effect. Instead of inciting terror, it only reassured Draco that he was, in fact, a very different man than his father, and that he was doing the right thing. He slowly turned back to his father, his eyes hard. "Tell me how my mother died."

Lucius' eyes flashed dangerously. "I believe you already received that information."

Draco scoffed. "You toldme a lie. I know for a fact that she wasn't upset in the least about me turning. She told me she was proud of me. And people don't die because their children turn out differently than they expect."

Lucius leaned forward. "When did you decide I had lied to you?"

"As soon as I finished your letter. Father."

"I had to write something, didn't I?" Lucius shrugged. "My mail was being intercepted. The Dark Lord was not pleased with your defection."

"I couldn't care less," Draco said.

Lucius leaned back and frowned. Then he started picking at his nails. "So. Draco. Rumor has it you've _become _someone now. Usually it takes months to set up these … meetings and for far less important Death Eaters than me. Imagine my surprise when they told me who had requested a visit."

Draco sneered. He hated letting his emotions show so easily, but where his father was concerned, anger bubbled menacingly just beneath the surface of his control. "It might rankle to know that I've got more pull now than you _ever _had. _Father._"

"Of course, of course," Lucius said, his tone deceptively breezy. "It helps to have friends in high places, you know."

"In case you missed the news, father, I had a bit to do with the fall of the Dark Lord myself. And since I inherited _everything _after your imprisonment, I think it's safe to say _I _am in a high place."

Lucius smirked. "You're still a traitor, _son_. And you'll always have that to live with. I may be in here, but I _know _that my loyalties have always been constant."

He glared at his father. "If you were as loyal as you claim, you would've been in here for my entire life." Lucius started to speak. "No. I don't want to have this argument. I am here about Mother. Tell me how she died."

"What gives you the right to come here and demand things of me?" Lucius challenged. "I am still your father, even from here. You owe me respect."

"She was my mother; that gives me the right to demand to know what happened to her. As for my respect, you lost that a long time ago."

Lucius regarded him coldly. "She was killed."

Draco inhaled sharply. He had always assumed she'd been murdered, but actually hearing the truth of it stung. "I figured that much. By whom?"

"What are you going to do?" Lucius sneered, learning on the table that sat between them. "Hunt him down? Kill him? Lock him up?" He laughed evilly. "Maybe you'd like to take a pitiful traitor's revenge?"

Draco considered the question. Now that he was here, speaking with his father … his reasoning didn't seem so clear. He had unwittingly given his father a lot of power over his future. He had arranged this interview with the understanding that Lucius' answer to dictate his next move.

However, if his suspicions were confirmed … Would he really be able to walk away from Hermione, from the future he wanted with her? The thought of going a week without seeing her had seemed unbearable; could he really accept that the rest of his life would be bereft of her company?

The answer was a resounding no. He had come too far, fallen too deeply to let one word from his father make any difference. It wouldn't change how he felt, so why should he let it change how he acted?

Still, Draco was concerned. If Lucius had killed his mother, then he would be fearful of one day hurting Hermione irreparably. He would simply have to work extra hard to ensure that didn't happen.

"No. I am not like you."

Lucius studied his son carefully. "No, I suppose you're right. I never would have turned my back on my beliefs, my family, the way you did."

"Who killed her?" Draco demanded through clenched teeth. His father's words hit too close to home. "I can easily delve into your mind, or ask that Veritaserum be administered. It would be easier if you just told me, but either way, I'm not leaving without the answer." He sneered. "Did you even love her, Father? Or was she just a pawn in your sick Pure Blood game?"

Lucius' eyes flashed angrily. "I always loved her, from the moment we met. How dare you question my affections?"

"Then how could you choose _him_ over her?" Draco shouted. "Over your family? How could you possibly swear to love Mum forever, and then turn your back on her to serve that psychotic megalomaniac?" He hadn't meant to raise his voice, but the anger had resurfaced and he didn't even try to hold it in.

Lucius' eyes narrowed.

"Whatever you try to tell me, whatever lies you're concocting in your sick mind, just forget it. I heard your fights as a kid! Voldemort drove a wedge between you that eventually led to her death! She died because of you!"

"There is something I want you to understand," Lucius articulated. "It's very important. I loved your mother more than anything. She and I chose him together; I didn't drag her along on a fool's quest for power. She fully supported me. Only later in life, when she saw the effects our decision had on you, did she reconsider her choice and finally come to regret it."

His father's words gave Draco pause. His mother had never discussed her relationship with his father, nor the circumstances that led to their involvement with the Dark Lord.

"Still, you did nothing to support her. You continued working for _him_."

Lucius sighed. "You should know that one does not simply quit serving the Dark Lord. Your mother wrote to me of the Dark Lord's expectations for you, saying she was terrified. It was difficult to do much of anything from inside these walls, but I was able to send her a letter. I told her to go to Severus for help in protecting you, which she did."

"After you were released from prison," Draco pushed, "you still didn't show any signs of wanting to change."

"I had to protect her!" Lucius countered. "The best way to do that was to stay close. If the Dark Lord had found out about her wavering convictions, she would have been immediately killed. I had only been out of Azkaban for eight months when you turned traitor and she fell ill." At Draco's shocked expression, Lucius smirked. "Yes, she became sick—with worry for you."

Lucius studied Draco thoughtfully and then sighed. "The night before her death, your mother came to me to tell me she was leaving. She said she was going to find _you._ She asked me to come with her but I refused, promising to conceal her disappearance for as long as possible. I wanted to ensure that she reach you safely; however, she was unsuccessful. One of our Lord's faithful found her and killed her." Lucius paused, and Draco saw barely checked fury in his eyes.

His father anticipated his next accusation. "Even you must know that eventually I had to tell him. Had he found out from anyone else, he would have killed _me_. As it was, he was furious that I'd promised her time to find you."

"You called me a coward in your letter, but you chose to let Mother die so that you would live." Draco couldn't remember ever being so angry. "I may be mistaken, but I believe that makes you the coward. Father."

Lucius scowled. "I had been under the impression that she was going directly to you. I knew about the meeting you had with her; I thought you had sorted out the details at that time. I couldn't discuss this with her, as the Dark Lord would have been able to discover her answers through Legilimancy. I honestly had no idea you were so well hidden, or I would have given her more time."

Draco shut his eyes tight and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I didn't even know she wanted to find me. If I had, I would have made sure she found me. That day … she didn't tell me she was thinking of leaving, just the opposite. She told me she would never leave you."

"Yet she did," Lucius quipped. "There is no need for you to worry about finding the fool who did it. I tracked him down and killed him." He sat up straight, his expression almost proud. "He was one of the Dark Lord's favorites, however, and I was set up." He held up his hands. "And now I sit before you."

"You didn't kill her?" Draco asked, amazed.

Lucius arched an eyebrow. "You thought I had done it? No, Draco. I never would have killed Narcissa. I was truly grieved when I learned of her death."

"So who was it?" Draco asked, not bothering to mask his anger and grief.

Lucius sneered. "Your uncle."

"Rodolphus?"

He nodded.

Draco was completely stunned. He had fully expected to learn that his father his killed his mother. It had never entered his mind to consider another possibility. To learn the truth, that Lucius had killed the man who'd murdered Narcissa and was sent to Azkaban by the Dark Lord as his punishment, was a complete shock. He'd always assumed his parents never really loved each other, and now his father had provided evidence to the contrary.

"Would you do it differently? If you could?" Draco asked.

Lucius shook his head. "No. Not one moment do I regret. Except, of course, telling the Dark Lord of Narcissa's turn. I had believed she would find you. She was killed for my mistake. And I miss her. Nothing could change my fate; I would still be here, in Azkaban, because the Dark Lord was defeated. But I would still have her."

Draco ran a hand through his hair and saw his father's jaw twitch, his eyes dart to Draco's full head of hair. He was _jealous!_ For reasons unknown, it made Draco happy. Never had he imagined his father could be jealous of anyone, let alone his own son.

He smiled wickedly. "You're a horrible father."

Lucius' eyes narrowed.

"But you are the only one I've got." Draco sighed and buried his head in his hands. "There's this … woman."

Lucius laughed. The sound startled Draco; it was a real, good-natured laugh, not like the cruel, heartless ones he had heard growing up. "You came to see me about a woman."

"And Mum," he muttered.

"Draco," said Lucius pointedly. "You are my son. You should have no trouble attracting the attentions of the finer sex."

He looked at his father's proud smirk and he wanted to dash it to pieces by telling him _who._ "I'm in love with one."

Lucius stopped and stared. "Ah, I see. That's different. Who is she?"

Draco shook his head. "It doesn't matter who, Father. I love her."

"Of course it matters, Draco. There are things to be settled, you know. Is it Pansy? Oh dear, I hope not. She was always so whiny and clingy. Someone I don't know, perhaps?"

"Pansy's marrying Ron Weasley," Draco said pleasantly. "In a little over a week. I surmise that rumor hadn't reached you."

"At least he's a pureblood." his father said.

Draco glared at the older man. "Blood traitor is the term I believe you're looking for. I have always been under the impression such people were almost as low as Muggle-borns."

Lucius returned the nasty look, his eyes narrowed. "Honestly, son. Do get on with it. I have better things to do than sit here and listen to you regurgitate my words."

Draco was quiet for a few minutes, thinking. The reason he had not sought the truth about his mother before was because he believed he knew already knew it. He had come today, expecting a confirmation straight from his father's mouth, to hear him confess to killing the woman he had once claimed to love. And yet, an entirely different truth had been revealed, one that had Draco considering the possibility that he was, indeed, more like his father than he had once thought. Lucius had put his family—his wife, at least—before the Dark Lord, when he was required to make that choice.

The truth … the truth was like flying, like jumping off a cliff. He felt light and invincible, free from the chains of his past and his family. An enormous burden had been lifted from his soul, and he felt indescribably free. Free to do anything, be anything … be with the one he loved.

"She's a Muggle-born, Father." Draco spoke lightly, as though he could have been discussing the weather. His father's reaction now would likely render the chasm between them impassable. Though he was proud to be like his father in one respect, this matter was not something they could ever agree on.

Lucius' bored expression twisted into a snarl. "A _Mudblood?_"

"Muggle-born," Draco repeated.

"You're in love with a Mudblood," said Lucius, his fierce eyes boring into Draco's.

"A Muggle-born. Yes."

Lucius didn't speak; he could only glare at Draco.

"Speechless, father? My, that was easy. If I'd known that was all it took, I would've told you ages ago."

"And what are you intentions with this _witch_?"

"Marry her, if she'll have me." Tomorrow, if he could manage it.

"You do realize, I'm sure, that you'll be ending generations of pureblood lines," Lucius spat. "Even the Blacks … your mother's family … will end with you."

"No, father, just the pure blood will end. I will always be a Malfoy. You've made certain of that."

"And yet, you don't care about the consequences of this decision."

"No, I do not," Draco admitted. "Not one bit."

The two men stared at each other coldly. Then Lucius' eyes softened. "It is a sobering thing when a father's greatest wish and greatest fear come true."

"And what is that?" Draco asked.

"His son learns to think for himself."

Draco blinked.

"Your mother warned me something like this might happen." Lucius sighed heavily, as though resigning himself to a fate worse than death.

Draco shut his eyes tight. What _was _it with her? Not for the first time, Draco wondered if she had been born with Seer blood and magic.

"I have had a lot of time to think about this. There is only _one_ Muggle-born witch who even comes close to receiving my approval. Your mother spoke well of her. Not that it matters, not that you need or are asking for my approval. So tell me. Who is she?"

Draco looked into his father's eyes to discover them sincere; he was telling the truth. Draco mumbled her name under his breath quickly, preparing himself for the inevitable.

"What was that?" said Lucius with a smirk.

"Granger."

"Ah, I see."

"Is she by any chance the only one who comes close?"

"Of course," Lucius said with a nod.

"And you would never accept her."

"No."

"Why? Because you're closed-minded and small?"

"I still hold to the ancient traditions, Draco. I believe certain people do not deserve the magic which is bestowed upon them. Despite the Mudblood's magical prowess, she is still vastly inferior to you in all respects."

"That's not true," Draco growled. "She is brilliant, not just with magic, and she is kind and fair. She thinks better of people than they deserve, and she wants to make the world a better place. She's amazing, she works hard at a meaningful job. If anyone is superior, it's her, and I am happy to be counted her equal."

Lucius frowned. "It sounds to me as though she is too good for you."

Draco laughed. He laughed hard and it wasn't funny. "I know," he said, when he pulled himself together. "Merlin, she is, I know. But she still wants me."

"Don't screw up, Draco."

He glared at his father. "You always think me a failure."

"So prove me wrong."

**ooo**

The sun was bright and unforgiving as it beat down on Draco's back. He stood on the edge of the cliff, broom in one hand, feeling strangely calm. When he returned from Azkaban, he had felt that familiar surge inside him, only this time it was all-consuming. It was time.

Draco thought about his mother, of the seemingly innocuous statement she had made those years ago on her birthday.

_Who knows? Maybe she'll be a Muggle-born? Never say never…_

For so long, he had wanted to know what she'd meant, understand her words, and learning that she had said expressed a similar sentiment to his father only solidified his belief that she knew something.

Perhaps she simply knew her son better than he'd believed possible, and knew that he could never settle for others' expectations—especially his parents'. Once he learned to speak and think for himself, if he couldn't reconcile what he'd been taught to think and believe with his own observations of the world, he wouldn't have mindlessly followed. Narcissa had seen this, and had been forced to come to terms with the knowledge that her son might fall in love with a woman 'below his station.' In the end, the notion hadn't been as awful as she'd thought.

The wind whipped through Draco's cloak, and he set the broom on the ground in order to remove it. Nature was too quick for him, however, and the breeze caught the garment, ripping it out of his hands and sending it floating above the sea. He watched it twist and spin on its way down, down to the rocks and crashing waves, and it reminded Draco of the first time he'd encountered this cliff, right after the war had ended. He had been terrified then, but also mesmerized, and that had started his twenty-month quest to jump off the cliff.

What would his mother think of his decision to be with Hermione? He didn't think she'd be upset by it, considering her words the last day he'd seen her, but the truth was, he would never know. Lucius had seemed almost … proud. Not that he had chosen a Muggle-born, chosen to go against generations of pureblood rhetoric; he was still Lucius Malfoy. Instead, he seemed proud that Draco had made a hard choice and stuck by it.

Which brought Draco back to the present. He hadn't followed through with his decision yet, but he had every intention of doing so. Finally letting Hermione into his life, all the way in, with no walls and no defenses, would be exactly like jumping off the cliff. Letting go of himself.

A fresh gust of wind blew, and Draco's heart starting pounding. His broom was still on the ground, and he positioned it just so, ready for him to Summon it.

When he stood again, his back straight and his head held high, he briefly wondered what would happen if he failed. Hermione would probably resurrect him just so she could hex him for doing something so stupid and leaving her.

That thought steeled him. He wouldn't fail, because there was nothing that could keep him from her. It was as simple as that.

Gripping his wand, Draco took a deep breath. As he prepared to jump, a thousand things—images, people, conversations—flashed through his mind.

Then he did it.

One second he was bombarded with sensations, the next—nothing. He was falling freely, propelled toward the surface of the earth by the force of gravity, and it was incredible. It was more exhilarating than flying because there was no guarantee he wouldn't plummet to his death.

The sight of the rocks growing closer and closer was terrifying, but he held his cool, and Summoned his broom at the precise moment he had calculated. Once he righted himself those crucial inches from the rocks, their razor sharp edges defeated, he realized what it was all about, why he had become so obsessed with the cliff. It wasn't about coming close to death, as he'd thought. Instead, it was about finally knowing what it meant to be _alive_. To make that decision, to choose a path and walk it, regardless of the obstacles that might arise.

Draco didn't linger over the water as he had in the past. He flew to the cliff, his heart still pounding from the thrill and his thoughts focused on Hermione. No, it was time to start living, and he didn't want to waste a second. He finally gave himself permission to live, and forgave himself for everything he'd done.

**ooo**

Knock, knock, knock.

He waited. The door opened.

"Draco!" A surprised Molly Weasley greeted him wearing an apron. She had flour on her hands and face.

"Molly, how are you?" he asked pleasantly.

"Well, I'm just fine," she said, ushering him into the Burrow. "I've just been baking with Little Arthur and Suzette—you remember Bill and Fleur's children—and they're having a great time, but making quite the mess. How are you?"

"Pretty good, actually," he said, glancing around the room. "How are the wedding preparations?"

Molly shook her head and continued to the kitchen. "Oh, you know how it is. It's an absolute zoo around here! Pansy's parents will be here for dinner tomorrow night, and the last minute details are all-consuming." She paused and looked at him significantly. "When it's your turn, my only hope is that your bride-to-be isn't dead-set on replicating this perfect image she's had in her head since she was old enough to play with dolls."

Draco grinned. He didn't think he was going to have that particular problem. "Is Ron here, by any chance?"

"Oh, yes, he is. He's with Pansy on the back porch."

He hesitated; he had hoped he would be able to speak with Ron privately.

"Would you like me to let him know you're here?" Molly asked.

Draco chuckled. The woman was truly amazing, and he often wondered if she could hear people's thoughts. "That would be great, thank you, Molly."

She nodded. "Sure thing, dear. Have a seat on the front stoop, and I'll send him around."

Draco did as instructed and soon Ron appeared.

"Hey, mate," he said, taking an empty chair. "Everything okay?"

Draco grinned again and felt a little ridiculous for it. But he didn't care. "Everything's great, Ron. I'm keeping my word."

Ron frowned. "Your word? What do you mean?"

"I told you that you'd be the first person I told."

He frowned deeper, then his eyes lit up. "Is this about Hermione? Are you going to tell her? Because she's—"

"No, Ron. This isn't about her." He waved his hand dismissively. "Come on, Weasley. You can get this."

Ron's brow furrowed deeper with thought. Then something dawned on him. "You jumped."

Draco nodded.

"Wow, when?" Ron's voice was full of awe.

"Just now," Draco replied.

"I … Wow!" Ron clapped him on the shoulder. "Mate, that's incredible! You did the whole thing, yeah?"

"Sure did." The grin simply wouldn't leave Draco's face.

"You really told me first?"

"Of course! Said I would, didn't I?"

"I'm honored." Then Ron smirked. "Harry doesn't even know, does he?"

"No, he doesn't," said Draco. "And I would like to tell him, if that's not too much to ask."

"Oh, sure, I keep quiet." Ron shook his head. "Merlin, when did you first tell us you were going to do this? It's been at least a year."

Draco nodded. "A year and a half, actually."

"Well, that's something, isn't it? We should go for a drink to celebrate. You, me, and Harry. Toast the cliff." At Draco's skeptical look, Ron grinned sheepishly. "Okay, maybe not. I don't know. Hermione usually takes care of these things."

"There's no need to take care of anything," Draco assured him. The last thing he wanted was for anyone to make a big deal out of this.

"So, what was it like?" Ron asked.

"Unlike anything," he said. "Indescribable."

"Excellent!" said Ron. "I bet it's a rush. When can I see?"

Draco frowned. "See what?"

Ron rolled his eyes. "When can I watch you jump? I bet Harry would want to watch, too."

"What?" Draco cried. "No, no one can watch. I don't plan on doing it again, anyway."

"Why not?" Ron asked, incredulous.

Draco sighed. "I didn't do it so that I could show people. It was … I needed to see something, to prove something to myself. To understand something about myself. It's not a circus act."

"But … well, fine." He paused, his expression turning mischievous. "Since you won't show us, can Harry and I come try?"

Draco laughed. "Not today. Today is my day."

Ron nodded enthusiastically. "Sure, yeah. But seriously, mate. We should go out. Drinks, at least. Pansy's spending time with her friends tonight, so you, me and Harry can go out."

He was waffling. It had been too long since he had done anything with his friends, and the idea of a relaxing night at the pub sounded really good. "Yeah, okay, sure."

"Excellent!" said Ron.

At that moment, Pansy came through the front door. "Oh, Ron, there you are," she started, but then saw Draco. Her eyes widened, she smiled and then flung her arms around him. "Draco!"

"Hi, Pansy," he said, gently prying her off. "You're exceptionally exuberant today."

She grinned. "I'm getting married in a week, and I'm simply too excited to sit still."

"No kidding," muttered Ron, before quickly kissing Pansy's cheek. "We're going out for drinks later," he told her.

"Good," she said. "Don't forget, Hermione asked you to bring her a cup of tea when you're finished."

"I know, I know," Ron said, "I've already got the water going."

Draco frowned. "Hermione's here?"

Pansy raised an eyebrow. "Yes …"

"Where is she?" His heart was pounding more than it had just before he had jumped earlier that day.

"On the back porch," Pansy said impatiently. "She is my friend, you know, and we're going out tonight, so … Hey!"

Draco hadn't heard anything after 'porch.' He left Pansy and Ron and walked quickly to the back of the house. He almost lost his nerve when he saw that Hermione was not alone, but was instead with Fred, George, Harry, Ginny, Fleur, and a few other people he couldn't immediately place.

Harry called his name, but he barely acknowledged it. His eyes were fixed on Hermione, and he tried not to be too annoyed that she was leaning against the railing beside Fred. Draco wasn't thinking; he was going on feelings. All he knew was that when he heard Hermione was nearby, he had to see her and nothing would keep him away.

Draco stopped in front of her and waited just long enough to inhale before he snaked one arm around her waist and the other up her back to lightly grasp the back of her neck. A look of surprise registered on her face before he angled her face toward his and kissed her.

Hermione hesitated for a second out of surprise, but then brought her hands up to his neck, pulled his head closer, and pressed her body flush against him.

Vaguely, Draco's brain registered the sounds of whooping and hollering from those around him, plus the slamming of a door, which he guessed was Fred.

It wasn't too long, however, before everyone and everything disappeared, leaving just the two of them. It was like one of those movies she'd dragged him to, where they're kissing in a crowded room, and the camera spins, and soon there's no one there but just them, and the camera still spins.

She allowed him to deepen the kiss, responding with equal passion and fervor, one hand pulling at his robes and the other fisted at the base of his neck. Merlin, he could kiss her forever and not get tired of it.

Again, his brain registered a sound, this time of someone clearing his throat. A few snickers followed, and then finally someone whispered that perhaps they should all leave. He sensed when they were truly alone, and he nibbled on her bottom lip, causing her to sigh agreeably.

Much too soon, Draco realized he would have to make a decision before things went too far and it was made for him. He wanted to continue kissing her, but he also knew she deserved a few things from him. Reluctantly, he slowly, unwillingly, softened the kiss, and pulled away.

Their eyes met and he leaned forward so their foreheads were touching. "You're so beautiful."

She opened her mouth to speak but he pulled away and gently placed a finger on her lips to silence her.

"Hermione," he began, his heart still racing. Her eyes were shining, the traces of a smile gracing their corners. "I love you."

Her eyes widened now, but still he kept his finger pressed to her mouth. "I know my actions haven't made a lot of sense, and I know that I've hurt you. I'm so sorry; it wasn't intentional. I—I'm ready now, ready to give myself to you. Be with me. I don't want to waste another moment of my life without you in it."

Draco slowly removed his hand and waited. She stared at him for a few seconds and then launched herself at him, throwing her arms around him. "Oh, Draco," she cried against his chest.

He squeezed her tighter and rested his cheek on her head, breathing in the scent of her hair. When she moved, he released her.

"I love you too," she said.

Draco was overwhelmed with feelings of inadequacy and fear, but he quickly banished them, remembering what Ginny had said. Not taking his eyes from Hermione's, he lightly placed his hand on her cheek. She immediately leaned into his touch, and then he cupped her face and kissed her. This time it was slow and deliberate, taking the time to explore and discover and memorize. Too quickly, his pulse was racing again, and he broke the kiss. There was a time and place for more, and this was neither. Instead of speaking, he took her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist.

"I also agree with you."

"About what?" He entwined his fingers with hers and let their hands hang loosely between them.

"Not wanting to waste another moment without you." With her free hand, she traced the line of his jaw, sending intense waves of pleasure through him. "I've always wanted to do this," she mused, almost to herself more than to him. "There are so many things I've wanted to do with you, to you, but I always held back, not knowing how you would react. I don't want to have to censor my actions anymore."

"Nor do I," he said. Keeping his eyes locked with hers, he turned his head into her hand and kissed her palm.

She only smiled, continuing to trace the lines of his face.

"So we're agreed. No more wasted time," he forced through a thick haze that was beginning to seep into his brain. Hermione didn't respond, but continued exploring his face with her hand. "You'll be with me." She nodded. "Forever."

That made her pause. She withdrew her hand and quirked an eyebrow. "We haven't even had our first date yet," she observed playfully.

Draco smiled at her. "We've been dating for over a year. It just hasn't carried that title."

"I hardly think the sporadic nature of our relationship thus far—not talking for months at a time—qualifies as a courtship."

He pulled her in for another kiss and buried his hands in her hair. "Then why am I already certain that I want to spend my life with you?"

Hermione's breath hitched, and her expression was serious when she peered into his eyes. "You mean it?"

"Completely and irreversibly," he replied without hesitation.

Slowly, she smiled, until her entire face was lit with joy. "Okay."

"Okay?" he repeated.

"Yeah. Okay. When do we start?"

**ooo**

That night, after announcements were made and drinks consumed, Draco held a sleeping Hermione as he stared at the painting she had given him. It still shimmered just as it had the day he'd received it, but he thought it seemed brighter now, the twinkling more brilliant. Perhaps it was merely a reflection of his mood, of finally having the woman he loved beside him, where she had promised to stay.

He hadn't been able to guarantee Hermione perfection, or that he would always be nice, or that his behavior would always make sense. He told her he would be moody and troubled at times, and anxious and hurting at other times, and he would expect her to know—unfairly, he admitted—which was which, and how best to deal with him. He couldn't promise her everything her heart desired, but he had promised to be hers forever, which she said was close enough.

_**- FIN -**_

**End Notes**:

The line "I'm hopelessly flawed" borrowed from "Little Women." Title of the chapter comes from an episode of Lost by the same name. The line "you're so beautiful" borrowed from Alias. This story was inspired by the song "The Absence of Fear" by Jewel.

there is this hunger, this restlessness inside of me  
and it knows that you're no stranger, you're my gravity

* * *

Well, this story is now complete. There will NOT be an epilogue, unless some incredible plot bunny strikes. To recap:

October 6, 2006 – Started typing this story from hand-written pages. Originally called "Black Edge," it was supposed to be four ridiculously long chapters.

January, 2007 – Sent chapter 1 to Z for a beta. Chapter 1 (now the prologue through chapter 2), was then 20 pages, 12,185 words. (Now 42 pages, 18, 523 words)

April 2007 – Showed the story to Eilonwy, who suggested that maybe it needed a lot of work. Did some editing of specific things, but it's not enough.

June 2007 – Consider either deleting the whole story, or trying to do the massive rewrite suggested by eilonwy. Simply didn't know if the story was worth all that work. Posted on my LJ, got great response and an additional beta: Buzzy! She encouraged me to continue the story, that it was worth the effort. So, the massive reworking began.

July 2007 – Posted chapter 1!

Then chapters posted in August, September, 2 in December of 2007, then February, March, May, and finally today.

Only 9 chapters, you wouldn't think it would take so long, but this has been an amazing process. I've learned a lot about writing, putting together a story, a scene, a paragraph, a sentence. I owe it all to an incredible team of betas. Whether you've been there for part or all of this journey, I cannot thank you enough!

**Z, eilonwy, kazfeist, buzzy, drcjsnider, and M:**

I could take up a lot of space with thank-yous, but I won't. Hopefully, I've told you all throughout this fic just how much I appreciate you and your efforts on this story. The way you've cared for it and truly want it to be good means more to me than anything else.


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